Consequence
by Peregrine2
Summary: What happens when Vaughn comes up for air?
1. After the Flood

Conséquence-Alias, PG13-Vaughn  
  
Peregrine  
  
Alias is owned by ABC, Touchstone and is the creation of JJ Abrams and Bad Robot Productions.  
  
Conséquence is French for Aftermath  
  
AN: Vaughn is alive, but what happens when he comes back from the dead?  
  
******  
  
When the flood calls  
  
You have no home, you have no walls  
  
In the thunder crash  
  
You're a thousand minds, within a flash  
  
Here Comes the Flood, Lyrics by Peter Gabriel  
  
*******  
  
Chapter One: After The Flood  
  
A million gallons of water thrusting its aqueous arms at her fleeing heels, and me standing there like an idiot…..mouth hanging open…..totally mesmerized like some country bumpkin visiting the big city for the first time. Nothing could prepare me for the drenching of my life. Ten g's pressing my face against the glass like a pilot in a flight simulator. Not exactly the high point of my existence.  
  
My instructors said I was born to the water, feet flipping like a seal, body skimming the surface like a dolphin. Age six, Boy Scout camp. Endless trials. Endlessly perfecting my skill, waiting for this one moment in time to strut my stuff. Right.  
  
You're not fooled, are you? You saw my face, air escaping while I tried to quell the rising wave of panic, telling you it was no use.  
  
Airtight doors with failsafes can't be defeated by a fire extinguisher. I wanted to tell her, but this giant whirlpool had the nerve to interrupt me. Sucking me down a tunnel, flushing me through the sewer system, and vomiting me into a canal full of detritus. Foul-smelling, noxious garbage floated around me. Choking me with its fumes, reminding me that I was lucky to be alive.  
  
Crinkly black leather, Matrix issue, tainted by my little dip in the refreshing waters of Taipei.  
  
Strange man leaves water.  
  
News at eleven. Weekly World News flash. Is he a selkie or some escaped mutation? A feat of genetic engineering gone wrong. Furrowed brows and tie- dyed hair. Yeah, I can see it all now.  
  
The year of the drowned rat.  
  
Rusty Mandarin dialect comes to mind as I trade clothes with a street person. Baggy caftan. Pointed hat. Funny shoes that pinch my toes. Keanu would be disappointed, but what can you do? More bartering gives me five minutes on somebody's black market cell phone.  
  
******  
  
"Where the hell are you, Mike?" The connection was bad, but Eric's annoyance came through loud and clear. Like how dare you leave me with your mess of cases? How dare you run off into the sunset with your agent while I get stuck with your work?  
  
The long and short of it was that I needed him right now. I couldn't tell him to fuck off for betraying me, for caring more about his 401K than loyalty and honor and all that goes along with it. He was right about me. I was irrational, beyond caring about my future in clandestine operations. Because when you're nearly washed out to sea by a tidal wave, it tends to put things in perspective. Emotions are laid bare, on the table for all to see. Painted in the lurid colors of Hollywood Boulevard. Tarted up by the cheapness of it all. Shoddy life. Shady work. Meaningless. Pointless. Banal. My voice, when it thinks to move my larynx and produce the words, croaks out that one little word. "Taipei."  
  
The long silence of disbelief. The snort of 'no way'. The hiss of 'you're shitting me'. Followed up by, "You need extraction?"  
  
A laugh finds it way from my belly, silently shaking my abdomen as I say evenly, "Yeah."  
  
"Go to the embassy and I'll make arrangements."  
  
I look down at my clothes and smother another chuckle. "It's not that simple."  
  
So I use up the rest of my five minutes and give him the scoop. Bad connection and all, I can hear fume impatiently, mind racing for a solution. When I finish, his advice is the same, "Go to the embassy. I'll….explain it to them."  
  
The line goes dead and I stare at the phone, wondering if our friendship has died along with it.  
  
******  
  
US Embassy. Forbidding walls. Gates with spikes. Keep out the aliens like me. My knock yields to the cut and paste features of some minor lackey. Drawn out vowels. Genteel South. Mint juleps and white gloves. A sniff of her upturned nose and a moue of distaste as she lets me pass. The click of her spike heels as she escorts me to a waiting area. The murmur of voices, hers raised and harried, the lower tones of her superior, rising and falling as they discuss my fate.  
  
Cheap, government-issue chairs and tables. Pressboard and plastic. Fugly picture of George Jr. with his arm around some diplomat. Plants rotting on the sun-drenched sill of an open window. Overflowing with the water from some hypervigilant secretary with a black thumb. Flies buzzing, competing with the approaching tap of a cane.  
  
A face hovers in the doorway like an apparition and coalesces into the grizzled features of the guy making nice with Mr. Bush. He peers at me through a monocle. Shades of Col. Klink. Clears his throat of its phlegm. Scores two points in the spittoon and creaks, "Mr. Vaughn, is it? You are in a bit of hot water."  
  
Great. More references to water. Reminders I don't need. "Umm, yeah," I bluster with my usual brilliance, trying not to notice the fusty odor that clouds the room as he approaches me. Pigpen personified. My not so lucky day. "So Agent Weiss contacted you?"  
  
He purses his lips and shakes his head for a moment. I can see the logic in not getting involved. Really I can. If pond scum showed up at my doorstep, I'd sure hesitate before lending a helping hand. "Yes," he says after a long beat. "I am Ambassador Smythe."  
  
Yikes. I have a snob on my hand. That's Smythe with a long i and don't you forget it. The urge to shorten the vowel passes and I extend my hand. "Agent Vaughn."  
  
His fingers are damp with perspiration and limp as the biscuits that my mother churns out as haute cuisine. White and fishy like some bottom feeder. "Your agency says I should give you my full cooperation. What do you think I should do?"  
  
Ah, the old turning the tables trick. Focus on the victim. Put him on the spot. Watch him hem and haw and beg for mercy. When you have him by the short hairs, string him along for awhile. Make him sweat blood. Capitulate when it's clear that you have his undying gratitude. "Interesting question. I guess I would help, but not before calling in a few favors."  
  
The creases of his face crack into a hideous smile. A rictus stuffed with piano key teeth. Yellowed with nicotine and years of bad coffee. "Exactly right."  
  
Not only a snob, but a pretentious git to boot. My guess is Choate, with a stint at Oxford that permanently etched his accent with the veddy British overtones that flute through his nose. "So you can help me?"  
  
"That is in my power, yes." Smythe stands there with a hateful smirk on his face. Like he knows he has me dangling. He seems to come to some decision and adds, "Follow me."  
  
******  
  
The wonders of a hot shower and a decent meal. My flight leaves in the morning and Smythe has offered me housing for the night. A monastic cell in the attic, stuffed to the gills with file cabinets and cartons of paper dating back to the Cold War. Hard mattress and iron bedposts. Springs erupting like geysers, skewering me with each twist and turn of my body. When it becomes clear that sleep will elude me, I jerk a folding chair to the window and let the night claim me. Arms of humid air surround me with the odors of swamp and fried food. Too much time to muse on what could have been.  
  
Me and Sydney. Working together. A real team for once. Only it never was. I was the added accessory that clashed with the whole operation. The jarring note in an otherwise perfect crescendo. The key that never turns the lock. The failed field operative. Flying a desk was all I deserved. No time to dig for any real meaning, scrabbling beyond the trivialities and protocols that dictated my role in this fallacy. This farce that I played every day, relentless hour upon hour, countless nicks of my blade with each morning shave. The perfect way that I knotted my tie after years of practice. Trained by my Parisian mother and her high-faluting ways. Hair slicked back. Razor-sharp creases in my pants, cloned on my forehead like a Photoshop stamp. Big, sharp G-man with my fancy Italian shoes. And to think it all meant something once, a very long time ago, in a faraway place called LA. A distant memory.  
  
I should be in panic mode now. Tying myself into knots, wringing my hands, demanding that they help me find her. But that was the old Vaughn, the one that drowned in the laboratory, the man whose backbone was surgically removed at birth. The new me has a spine that prickles as it grows and shapes me into a person I don't recognize. Snarky. Indifferent. Blase. Darkness that has always been there, patched and paved with good intentions and molded by decorum.  
  
Sydney.  
  
Love that burns. How can you love someone you don't even know? Their every breath is a passing thought that fans your face, the here and the now vanquished by the fantasy that looms whenever you see her. The swing in her step. The bounce of her shiny hair. The light in her eyes. The way she moves. The scent that you catch when she flits around you like a hummingbird, sidestepping and dancing, restless legs and arms emoting with her conviction. Admiration turns on its head in the tunnel. Bleak and cold as the deluge that washes it all away. Love. Respect. Honor. All gone now.  
  
****** 


	2. Afterburn

Conséquence-Alias, PG13-Vaughn  
  
Peregrine  
  
Alias is owned by ABC, Touchstone and is the creation of JJ Abrams and Bad Robot Productions.  
  
******  
  
Chapter Two: Afterburn  
  
The morning sun blazes through the fog that hugs the ground, misty tendrils dragging at my feet as I duck my head into a taxi. The humorless driver with a wad of gum in his cheek plays Indonesian rap at a deafening volume while he drives at top speed, tossing me around the back seat like a bag of trash.  
  
By the time we get to the airport, I am a mass of bruises and bile. A disgusted jerk of my hand and I am out the door, throwing a crumpled twenty at him as I ignore his curses and sprint for the main entrance. Pushing my way through the crowds that wait to get their luggage checked, joining the very short line at the metal detectors. Nothing in my pockets but seawater and spit. Borrowed clothes do not make the man. Brooks Brothers this is not. Dockers with holes at the knees, gapping waist held in check by a length of rope. Billowing tropical shirt that hangs to my knees. Cheap sunglasses that I filched from a corner kiosk. Fishing hat that I swiped from Smythe's personal collection. Incognito and indefatigable. I could waltz by my own mother and she wouldn't know me. Past security and their gauntlets. Moving through the drug-sniffing dogs and their frumpy handlers. Gate 21A. Red-eye flight to LA. Home free. Or so I thought. I parked my ass on the end of an empty bank of chairs and found someone's abandoned magazine. Rolling Stone with Chinese characters. Better than nothing.  
  
Twenty minutes to boarding time. I look up at the oversized clock on the wall and that's when I see him. Jack Bristow. Moving quickly and quietly. Unfolding a newspaper and sitting directly behind me. As I scan the pictures of some hot young babes, he hisses, "Leaving so soon?"  
  
The man has always been cool toward me, but the ice dripping from his words freezes me. Immutable and glacial. His face unmoving, never smiling or dropping his mask for a moment.  
  
With an airy tone that is far from what I feel, I turn another page and reply, "How did you find me?"  
  
An irritated snap of his paper is the only indication that I am annoying him. "Agent Weiss is quite thorough. For instance, the first question he asked was whether Sydney got out all right. Imagine my surprise when he told me that you never once asked about her."  
  
So Weiss had been briefed….word had gotten out, but it hadn't been from me. No details. Just a destination and the authorization for a pick-up. I closed my eyes as the ghost of my old self reared its spineless head and roared in protest. I ignored its feeble mewling and felt my expanding vertebrae toss me into another dimension. "She can take care of herself," I offer tightly, noting that the flight attendant was getting ready to board passengers.  
  
A pathetic excuse, but the best I could offer at this juncture. Bristow was so close I could hear his breath accelerating into something approaching rage. "You're her handler. You have a responsibility…."  
  
"This was a private op. Off the book. I volunteered to come along….." With a shrug, I toss the magazine on the seat and start to get to my feet, but he is too fast for me. His hand snakes out and snares my wrist, enclosing it with the manacle of his fingers. Dragging me back to my seat like a disobedient child.  
  
"You disgust me," he mutters. Sotto voce. Ominous and as threatening as he intends it to be. "But I need your help to get her out. Devlin won't support an extraction and you're my last hope."  
  
"Your last hope," I repeat mockingly, wincing as he tightens his grip. Poor guy. Relying on someone like me is a crapshoot. I can't even get out of my own way in a pinch. How am I supposed to back him on an op like this? "Do I have a choice?"  
  
I hear the release of his safety and wonder how he got the gun through security. Yeah, compliance is definitely the better choice. "All right. I'll help you. But when this is over…..I'm done with the two of you."  
  
And with that, I find the strength to slip from his fingers and stand on my own two feet.  
  
******  
  
We make quite a sight as we parade through the airport. People stare at the sober man in the gray suit and the clown in the oversized clothes that traipses behind him. A reluctant passenger on this journey. But we have one thing in common. As we pass the highly reflective surface of the concourse under glass, I recognize the same grim line on each of our faces, his mouth pulled down into a tight frown, my forehead puckered into its usual configuration. And as much as I want to forget who I am and what I represent, it is part of my blood, etched and ingrained into my very soul. I am part of this, whether I like it or not. Here for the duration. But one thing has changed forever. I will not let them control me. They will not dictate how it has to be. Not anymore. I may have survived the flood, but a part of me was washed away with Rambaldi's battery. My innocence is lost to the watershed, replaced by the darkness I always warn Sydney about. The part that doesn't care what happens. To hell with whatever consequences arise with this operation. I am not a party to it. And if I take them down with me, then so be it.  
  
******  
  
Have you seen Taipei from the sky? The light pollution alone must outshine the sun. One huge megalopolis spanning the northern end of Taiwan. Sin city. Really, you can do anything and be anyone you want. Like that fetish club. The beginning of the end. Weirdly coiffed creatures in bizarre clothes and me in my leathers. Angel meets Matrix. Diamond earring and garish streaks in my hair. The feeling of power as I shove that guy on the make. The smile of gratification on Syd's face….and the way she takes charge of the mission…..total head rush. For a moment, I forgot who and what we are and played along with the fantasy. How easy it would be to lose myself in this dream, dancing the night away with a blue-haired babe who just happened to be a spy.  
  
The fantasies make it easier to pretend I am anywhere but here, riding shotgun to Spy Daddy, his mouth flattened into a grim line as we drive through the business district. Traffic is practically at a standstill, and it does nothing for his already fractious mood. We are deep in the heart of the city, buried in its nether regions, the underworld that overlays every passing transaction, every piece of business is routed through the kingpins that rule this empire. The mile high towers of the financial district give way to the squalid structures on the waterfront. And through it all, I dream the dreams of the wandering fool, stifled by the simmering anger of Jack Bristow.  
  
I have nothing to offer, nothing to say that hasn't already been said. What can you do to a man who has seen it all and done it all? Jack Bristow has experienced every atrocity that the spy trade has tossed his way. Dealt with it. Delegated it. The trigger man in many an operation and not someone I would want as my enemy. But it's already too late for me. The sliver of respect that once existed between us has flown the coop, along with my honor and the desire to do what is right.  
  
The traffic snarl eases and I start to recognize the area where the lab once stood. In its place is a cavalcade of police cars and security tape around the perimeter. A crater that swallows the equivalent of ten city blocks. If my mouth opens any further, I am sure a few flies will wander in. Bristow throws me a look and seems satisfied that I am finally feeling something other than the numbness that has set in.  
  
"How do we find her?" I ask as we leave the crater behind and head even further into the maze of alleys and rats' warrens that make up the waterfront.  
  
Jack seems to weigh his words before he answers. "I persuaded one of Khasinau's men to spill his guts."  
  
I swallow hard at his choice of words and decide that the details are best left in Jack's mind. With a weak smile, I finger the newly stolen Glock that rests in its holster on my back. Two against an army. And Sydney Bristow. Weiss once said she could take down the world, but sometimes the world is not enough. Two sighs later, we come to a dead stop and I know that it's show time.  
  
*******  
  
Jack uncorks a bottle of wine and sloshes it against me. "Take a few swigs," he orders curtly and I comply without argument.  
  
The red wine is worse than any poison he could have slipped me. It burns its way down my throat and I gasp as it torches my stomach. When he smiles, it chills me with its withering frost, only slightly thawed by the amusement in his eyes. Rank amateur. Easily led and easily read. Put a ring in my nose and lead me around like your daughter always has. Or so he thinks. "Watch my back," Jack warns as he hands me an earpiece and fades into the shadows.  
  
Time passes and while I swat at the growing army of gnats and mosquitoes, I start to wonder what I am doing here. Jack is the point man and I'm the lookout. But what am I watching for? Vagrants and street people that barely spare me a glance as they dig through the mounds of garbage? Winos like the bum I am supposed to be, shambling about alleys, zigging and zagging as they guzzle their go-go juice, hands outstretched for any NT coin that falls their way.  
  
I grow bored, and boredom is a bad thing for someone with my state of mind. So I decide to check out the warehouse that stretches the length of two football fields. With shuffling feet, it's easy to pretend that I'm looking for a place to crash. Easy to forget the real reason I am here. So when I stumble against the doorframe and catch my barred, reflection in the grimy window, I see a sleek back Mercedes pull into the alley. It stops and a woman gets out. I open my mouth to warn Jack, but my words die in my throat as she turns to speak to the driver. Overconfident in her bearing. The proud swing of her shoulders as she starts heading my way.  
  
Irina Derevko, aka Laura Bristow.  
  
Sleek dark hair that just brushes her shoulders.  
  
She killed Dad.  
  
Navy blue suit and sensible pumps. The way that she walks….my God, it's just like Sydney.  
  
She killed all those other agents.  
  
A few more seconds and she'll see me. It'll be all over. That's when it hits me. Why I am here. He would do anything for his daughter. Kill. Maim. Destroy. And I am a convenient target. An even trade.  
  
With one last glance in her direction, I slip through the door and dive behind some crates at the moment she arrives. One hand plucks the earpiece from my ear and drops it while my other hand finds my Glock. Radio silence. Ensuring that I buy myself at least a little time. But I can't say what will happen to the others. And I can't find it in myself to care.  
  
Because retribution is the only thing that drives me now.  
  
****** 


	3. Tinderbox

Conséquence-Alias, PG13-Vaughn  
  
Peregrine  
  
Alias is owned by ABC, Touchstone and is the creation of JJ Abrams and Bad Robot Productions.  
  
******  
  
Chapter Three: Tinderbox  
  
White light, White light goin' messin' up my mind  
  
White light, and don't you know its gonna make me go blind  
  
Lyrics by the Velvet Underground  
  
******  
  
I remember the train station and what I said to her about my dad. It tore me up to talk about him after all these years, but I had to do it. Had to make her see what this had cost my family. Lives lost, torn asunder by grief. A boy without his father, forever wishing for what could have been. Following in his footsteps, vowing to get the people who did this. Of course, at the moment when I signed on the dotted line and committed myself to the CIA, I didn't have revenge in mind. Back then, I believed that justice would be done. How naïve of me.  
  
March 13, 1976  
  
There's a highly placed mole in the Agency. Too many missions have crashed and burned, too many secrets have ended up on the other side. Devlin hears me out, but says we can't move without evidence.  
  
This was the beginning of the end for my father. His writing became frantic and he practically tore holes in the page with his pen. Angry black lines. Thickened letters with huge underscores. A perfect candidate for the ulcer that came to roost in his stomach. Maalox mouthwashes and Tums for breakfast.  
  
March 15, 1976  
  
They have their list of suspects, but a name is missing from that roster. Jack Bristow. He is behaving oddly. Evasive. Missing information in his reports. Events that don't add up. I hope I am wrong. We've been friends for a long time.  
  
And the last entry before he died:  
  
March 20, 1976  
  
Langley knows about Bristow and they've warned me off the case. Told me they were taking care of it. That's corporate spy-speak for a case file in someone's in-box. Low priority. That's OK, because I think I was wrong about him. I think his wife is the spy. Call me crazy, but something is off about her. The perfect way she pronounces her words. Exact diction, like she is trying to hide an accent. And her mannerisms….seem copied from Emily Post. I know where she teaches and decided to follow her home. Only problem is, she met someone in a park. Someone familiar. A known Soviet sympathizer on the Agency's watch list. I have to call it in. It's my duty.  
  
It got him killed. Duty, honor, and love of country. Isn't that why we go out and fight the good fight every day?  
  
All this winds through my head as I stalk behind the Soviet bitch and her body guards. Three men in black. Beefy no-necks whose arms lie at strange angles, rippling with steroid-induced muscle that pumps them full of hot air. Buzz cut hair and tiny pig's eyes. Cold and mean as a snake. Compared to them, I am the 98 pound weakling, but that won't stop me from doing whatever it is I'm meant to do.  
  
I peer around a corner, gun at the ready, and my heart practically stops in my chest. The harsh light of interrogation. Two Bristows trussed up like lambs to the slaughter. Hands and feet bound to boards. Sydney hanging upside down. Blood dripping from her mouth. Raccoon eyes glaring in defiance at a small Chinese man with needles protruding from his hands like spikes. Edward Scissorhands. He jabs her in the arm with something nasty and she starts flopping like a fish on the deck of a boat. I wince at the agony on her lovely face and deep inside, the part that still feels stabs me with empathy pains.  
  
She's the only reason you're here. Forget about revenge.  
  
How can I forget, when it's taken my whole life to come to this one moment? When I offered to help her, there was no ulterior motive. Now there is. What are the chances of us all converging like this? Slim and none. I was meant to do this, to take down the woman who's ruined so many lives. Because they won't do it…..can't do it. They're too close to get the job done. So I'll step in, and take the fall.  
  
Blindly following orders. It got him killed.  
  
None of them notice me slip into the room. Two steps brings me to a comfortable haven behind a bulkhead. When I peer around the corner, I see a younger man standing slightly apart from the others. Blue eyes vacant. Having no stomach for torture. Sark. He raises his fingers and two henchmen emerge from the far side of the room and start in on Jack Bristow. They nail him to the wall in a classic crucifixion pose. But that's not enough, so they beat him to a bloody pulp. Not once does he flinch. His lips are permanently sealed and his blood-encrusted eyes stare at Sark without the slightest flicker of emotion.  
  
I used to trust these two with my life, and I feel a sliver of doubt at Jack's predicament. If he meant to betray me, then why get himself captured? Part of me wants to believe him, but I never get the chance to complete that thought.  
  
Irina chooses that moment to step from the shadows and my gun hand rises up without me noticing it. My index finger squeezes the trigger, waiting for the recoil and hearing nothing but a click.  
  
Jammed firing pin. Trust is a tricky thing.  
  
The gun that Jack gave me. Conveniently broken.  
  
Batting zero right now. Two goons with Heckler and Koch assault rifles fly across the room and corner me, ready to cut me down.  
  
Nice hardware. MP5A3.  
  
Langley frowns upon this state-of-the-art gear. We are a shadow agency with technology and furniture that dates back to the Cold War. Desk jockeys in a paper jungle. Stolen tech ripens the larder but not much else.  
  
Countless training simulations pass in front of my eyes, but none of them prepares me for what I do next. I draw my hand back and lob the Glock at the closest grunt with my best strikeout pitch. It crunches bone and the rifle falls from his fingers. With a dive, I roll on the floor and snatch up the gun. Grunt #2 starts firing and the bullets punch into the wall behind me. I kick out my feet and knock him on his ass. Two down. Ten or so to go. Using the gun like a bat, I swing it at them and connect with bone and tissue.  
  
Batting .1000.  
  
Syd and Jack. Gone from sight. Three guns are trained on me, waiting for me to make the next move. Derevko is clenching one of them. Her Walther PPK 9mm fits perfectly in her gloved hands.  
  
How James Bond of her.  
  
The eyes of a stone cold killer. Sydney's eyes. Trained on me with full intent to kill. Sparkling with amusement. I blink a few times, remembering the same look in Syd's eyes when I'd cracked a bad joke during our trip to Denpasar.  
  
"So, you are William's son. Foolish, just like he always was." The heavy Russian accent surprises me. After all this time, I expect her to sound American. They trained her for this, the least she can do is keep up the illusion.  
  
"You know you are outnumbered." Sark takes that moment to remind me of the obvious, sounding perfectly reasonable as he takes a step toward me.  
  
I might be outnumbered, but I have them outgunned. Grunts #1 and 2 haven't moved, and Grunt #3 looks far less sure of himself without the added testosterone of his two buddies. His trigger finger wavers slightly as he hides behind the long shadow of his boss.  
  
"Let them go." The alien that inhabits my body speaks in the bold, confident tones of someone with nothing to lose. "Take me in their place."  
  
A rich chuckle bubbles from her throat and the sound revives some feelings I thought were dead. Sydney giggling on the other end of the phone when I contact her to arrange a meeting.  
  
The same damned laugh as her mother.  
  
"You are worth nothing to me. Alive or dead, it makes no difference to me. The choice is yours." Irina waves the gun and that's when I see the silencer.  
  
"Did you use that on my father?" I snarl, not relaxing my guard for a moment.  
  
She shakes her head and I see that she's trying to remember something. "No, that was a 7.65 mm pistol."  
  
I roll my eyes. "Whatever. This is the deal. You either let them go or I start shooting."  
  
"I don't have time for this." Irina motions to Sark with her free hand. One quick snap and I feel the pierce of a dart in my leg. That's all it takes to set me off.  
  
With carbines blazing like the strafing run of a plane, I launch into action and take out the grunt as he inhales his last breath. Shooting lower, I shoot out Sark's kneecaps and ignore the way the room has started to pitch as the trank kicks in. Fuzzy vision and all, I whirl around on Irina and have a clear shot at her.  
  
Take your best shot.  
  
The voice of my training instructor at the Farm. Kicking my ass on the best of days.  
  
Dad, this is the right thing to do.  
  
Two adversaries facing off. One slipping into the sunset, the other with the merciless patience of an assassin. Kicking off the safety, finger holding steady on the trigger, waiting for me to drop. I still have a chance, and I have to take it.  
  
Have to do this. Can't let her win.  
  
At the exact moment that my fingers clench to finish her off, something slams into me with the force and velocity of a bullet. Before unconsciousness takes me, I see Sydney's blue hair and heavily kohled eyes hovering over me.  
  
Guardian angel.  
  
Her fingers cradle my face and I am lost to the darkness.  
  
******* 


	4. Random Flight

Conséquence-Alias, PG13-Vaughn

Peregrine

Alias is owned by ABC, Touchstone and is the creation of JJ Abrams and Bad Robot Productions.

******

Chapter Four: Random Flight

Break my fall in vain  
Pain won't go, rest in peace 

Break Me Gently, lyrics by The Doves  
******  
_Somewhere over the Pacific Ocean_

Consciousness pricks at me like a med tech who can't find a vein, nudging me closer to a reality I'm not ready to face. A melange of voices breaks through from the other side. Syd's softly bewildered words and her father's attempt to reassure her.

_What's wrong with him?_

**I don't know.**

_But he never acts this way._

**How well do you really know him?**

_I thought he was different….special. _

**I'm sorry.**

_All those things he said about his dad….he was so sad. I should have guessed….I should have seen this coming._

**Nobody could predict this.**

_It doesn't matter. I should never have let him get involved._

Jack has no answer for that, and neither do I. She always blames herself, thinks that the world turns on her actions. I have to make her see how wrong she is. That she is not responsible for what I have become. As the entire warehouse sequence replays itself in my mind, I realize that a second chance won't matter. I don't take it back. I'm not sorry for what I almost did. If Irina crosses my path again, it will be the last thing she ever does.  
*****  
_It sucked you in, it dragged you down  
__To where there is no hallowed ground_

Dream On, Lyrics by Depeche Mode

I let my eyes flutter open and see that I'm on another military transport plane, propped against a pile of parachutes and crates. Syd and Jack are closer to the cockpit, heads bent together, oblivious to my sudden state of consciousness.

It buys me a few minutes, and I use the time to get the lay of the land. No shackles or restraints. No one standing guard over me. That didn't mean they trusted me, but it meant they didn't see me as a threat. A mistake? Maybe. I really don't know the man inside me. The thirst for revenge…..the call for a certain brand of justice….all foreign objects….rankling….a painful reminder of what I want to forget.

"Hey." I almost jump at the sound of her voice. Syd kneels down and touches my arm lightly. "You gave us a bit of a scare back there."

The understatement of the year. I search her dark eyes and find nothing but compassion and the shimmer of tears lurking at the edges. "What did they drug me with?" I ask, rubbing my eyes and sitting up, still slightly shaky from the effects of the dart.

That produces a faint smile as she sits back on her heels. "We're not sure. But it's not lethal….they never intended to kill you."

I closed my eyes, wanting to blot her out, erase all the memories. All the words about her mother. Crying on the pier. Her father's alleged betrayal as he tried to protect her by painting himself as the villain. I know why he did it. And the confession that I forced out of him. All of this is my fault. Where I am now. How I feel. My failure to end this the right way. "You may be right."

Jack hears us talking and joins the party. "Can I have a moment?" he asks tersely.

I smile tightly and watch Sydney's shapely backside as she moves back to the cockpit. "Sure."

"I have to file a report." Short and right to the point. I like that about Jack. 

"I know." With a shrug, I get to my feet and stare through the porthole at a bank of cirrus clouds. Should I tell him that one is shaped like a gun? Or the one over there looks a lot like the battery we destroyed? If you wait long enough, you can see your whole life in a cloudscape.

"She got away." He manages to keep his voice down, but I hear the rancor lurking behind the cool exterior. "We almost had her."

"Not from where I was standing." I turn away from the window with the buttress of my folded arms protecting me. Erecting the walls of my fortress. Fortifying myself against the attack that was sure to come at any moment.

"You disobeyed orders." The mask slips just a bit and I shrink back slightly from the blazing inferno in his eyes. 

"So?" I let him stew on that for a moment, knowing I was playing with fire. "You forced me into this, and that's what I'll tell them when they ask."

"You volunteered for this mission. And as her handler, you had a responsibility to follow this through." The gloves are off and I step out of range of his clenched fists. 

_Don't fuck with Jack Bristow. _

Those were the first words out of Weiss's mouth when I transferred out to LA. The best advice he could ever give me.

_Don't cross the line._

Was he ever right about that. Biggest mistake I ever made was getting emotionally attached to Sydney. It weakened me as an agent. Almost got her killed. I looked death in the face and liked what I saw. Death would have been far easier than living this lie. 

_Don't shit where you live._

My drunken Aunt Trish on one of the rare occasions when she made perfect sense. Red hair flying in her face as she dances around my enraged mother. Christmas morning. One too many eggnogs. Sneaking me drinks upstairs while the grownups party. Playing chess while she doles out advice between sips of her cocktail.

This flies through my mind as I stare back at him. A hundred things I could say. Discarded in favor of what I really think. "You sold me out."

"I can see why you'd think that."

He floors me with this answer and as usual, I'm at a loss for words. "Really. How's that?"

"It makes perfect sense. I threatened you with deadly force."

I nod absently. "And then there's the gun…."

"What are you talking about?"

"The Glock? It had a jammed firing pin." Amazing how calm I can be when I put my mind to it. 

"I see." Jack shrugs and cracks his knuckles. For some reason, that unnerves me more than his earlier anger. "It was the best I could do."

"I'm sure." The conversation is ended by the announcement that we should prepare for landing.

"We'll talk later." Heavy and somber, weighted by the force of his hand on my shoulder. Pushing me into my proper place as he joins Sydney.

LAX. Only twelve minutes away. The rest of my life lies down there. My fate decided by a bunch of stiffs in suits. I sit back and enjoy my last few minutes as a free man.


	5. Firing Line

Conséquence-Alias, PG13-Vaughn

Peregrine

Alias is owned by ABC, Touchstone and is the creation of JJ Abrams and Bad Robot Productions.

AN: For those who thought he didn't care…he cares very much. Perhaps too much. Perhaps it will be his downfall. Remember, everything is not what it seems. And she has secrets too.  
******  
Chapter Five: Firing Line

_Normal people go to their normal jobs._

They mesmerize me. Worker bees. Darting to and fro, cell phones in hand, lattes sloshing as they gather at the gates. A soft voice at my elbow, nudging me back to reality.

"You coming?" She still cares about my welfare. 

_Why_? I want to shout. _Why do you care what happens to me?_

"In a minute. I need…." I don't know what the hell I need right now. Not her understanding, or her friendship. Better if she hates me now. Get it over with. My gut churns from the battery acid they served on the plane and I make a dash for the nearest men's bathroom. The porcelain bus beckons and I puke my guts out. Long minutes pass and the last dry heave finally passes, but my guilt still remains. The feelings I tried to suppress….all there in black and white. Glaring at me like a mile-high billboard on Hollywood Boulevard. Shouting out my sins to the world.

_Look what he did. He tried to murder his girlfriend's mother._

I drag my carcass to the sink and blanch at the way I look under the wonderfully flattering fluorescent fixtures. Forty miles of bad road paved all over my face. The gaggle of lines on my forehead. Unshaven mug. Ghastly. A set of luggage parked under the mad glare of my green eyes. Alive with electricity and emotion. Feeling what I didn't expect to feel. 

_Girlfriend._

Why did I say that?

_I'm not going to trivialize your relationship with her by calling it a crush._

A crush. Was that what this boiled down to? Does puppy love make you follow someone down the road to hell? Is infatuation the reason I spent an entire day looking for her?

_There's a line that we've been sworn not to cross. We're about a mile past that._

Try ten miles. I dance with death and this is what I get. An emotional sledgehammer pasting a kick-me sign on my butt. Jack Bristow will be first in line. And when she sees the real me….when it all comes out in my hearing….sweat breaks out on my brow. What I did was indefensible. Turning my back on a fellow agent and going rogue….we all know how that ends. No one rides off into the sunset. The guy doesn't get the girl. There is no happy ending.

_I don't know how to be Sydney's handler without making it personal._

The intimacy of our warehouse meetings. Our joined hands on the pier. The hug she so desperately needed. Reaching out for me when no one else was there for her. The way I opened up to her in the train station. This has never happened before. Not with Sharon. And definitely not with Alice.

Tidal waves and raw sewage aside, I cannot unravel feelings that are so tightly wound, so inextricably bound to my very core. They are part of me. And like the darkness, I must find a way….

_Find a way._

Weiss admonishing me. Yeah, that's a fifty dollar word for taking me down a peg or two. Fully vested and all, he's got a point. I have to work my way through this. Alone.  
*****  
Two Bristows standing across the concourse. Waving hands. The flash of dark eyes. Angry words lost to the din of passengers and sky caps. The devil on my shoulder whispers in my ear.

_Leave them behind_.

My conscience won't let me move a muscle. 

_She's defending your honor. How can you turn your back on that?_

I feel her eyes on me and when I raise my head, it's like one of those Kodak moments. The hundred yard stare. Disheveled and rumpled. Not the spit-shined Vaughn she is used to. She shakes off her father's restraining hand and glides through the crowd like we are the only two people standing there.

"Vaughn, you….are you OK?" Syd looks like she wants to move closer, but her father's presence is putting  a damper on things.

"That's my line," I say dryly, ignoring the flip flop of my stomach as I catch her scent. How can someone who's been through the ringer smell so damned good? And why the hell am I noticing?

It's good to hear her laugh, but the best part is the flash of her dimples as she smiles. Jack looks disgusted and starts to move toward us. "I guess I'll see you at…."

"Yeah," I say, ducking my head. "I better go."

"Let me know if you need anything," Syd calls after me.

"Sure." I wave my hand and manage to avoid a collision with her father, who merely glares at me in that way he has. Flat, cold eyes and the down-turned line of his mouth. The face that haunts my dreams for the rest of the weekend.  
******  
Sunday is a blur of reading the newspaper and watching the game. By the time night rolls around, I'm down half a case of beer and my finger is sore from clicking the remote. Midnight comes and goes and I finally collapse in my easy chair, Donovan snoring at my side. Dreaming doggy dreams that sound infinitely better than the ones that drag me down into slumber and send me back to reality, screaming and sweating. 

Jack Bristow with his gun at my temple. Impaling me with needles. Breaking bones with his bare hands and a huge grin of the purest pleasure. Another face. Overly white and haughty. Arched eyebrows. Irina. The two of them rubbing their hands together in glee.

_I was wrong. He was more than an even trade. But he hasn't cracked yet…._

She catches Jack in an embrace and I turn away at the sight of them kissing. Can't stomach the thought of him turning traitor. I try to rise up but am clamped down by a set of hands. Strong as iron. Unyielding. I tip my head back and am caught up in Sydney's eyes. Dark and mocking. Triumphant. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree. Fruit of their loins. She leans over me and catches my mouth in the kiss I've always dreamed of. Sensuous and stirring. Opening my lips with hers, exploring me fully. When I am ready to yield and spill my guts, she bites down hard on my tongue. Screams of agony tear me from yet another nightmare.

I sit up, scratching my head and shaking and the thought that won't die rises once again. So palpable I can taste it.

_How did they escape? Did they make a deal with her?_

It won't leave me. Not now and not for the rest of the night. I pace back and forth with my afghan wrapped tightly around me, shuddering in the warm night from a coldness that has nothing to do with temperature and everything to do with the dawning realization that I have no answers. Thoughts I can barely fathom trip me up and by the time the sun peeks over the eastern ridge of Laurel Canyon, I am no closer to the truth. But the day of reckoning is here and we are all accountable.

******  
_Monday morning arrives like it always does. The inevitable end to the weekend. The let down you feel when you wake to the grating sound of the alarm, knowing it's only moments before you set your feet on the floor, grab your clothes, and head for the shower. You might sit on the toilet for awhile and ruminate, or you might let the hot water wake you up completely. Then you nick yourself shaving. Your coffee spills all over the counter and you curse when you realize there aren't enough beans left to make another pot. You are almost out the door when you realize that you've left your pager and your cell phone on the bedroom floor. Uncharged. Dead batteries. On your second attempt to leave, you trip over your dog and sprawl head first on your front walk. Your next door neighbor, who already thinks you're a kook, has a real laugh at your expense as you pick up all your tech toys and stuff them in your briefcase._

_Once you make it out to the freeway, you realize you've missed your traffic window and you'll be an extra hour late. No time to stop at Krispy Kreme. No coffee. No donuts. LA beckons and when you finally get the very last parking spot on the top deck of the parking lot, you see that the minute hand has inched past the nine. Devlin will be tinkled pink. Late again for the Monday morning meeting. On this day of all days. The day when it all comes down._

Most of my days start this way, but I never notice the minutes ticking by like I do now. The way I stroll down the corridor to my office The people I greet by first name. The guy on the end cube who always disses the Kings. The cute secretary who harbors a not so secret crush on me. What's her name….Alma. And the knot of people around Weiss's office door….real unusual. Leaning forward as he tells them something. The guy with the inside scoop, that conspiratorial air to his voice as he preaches to the choir. I hear a familiar name.

_Haladki. Shot execution style. Dumped in the La Brea Tar Pits._

I pass by his window and our eyes meet. As I walk past, I see the flash of guilt in his eyes. Unacknowledged by me as I continue on my journey to Conference Room B. A commotion as he pushes through the crowd and runs after me. Catching my arm before I push through the door. I look down at his fingers and he drops his hand.

"Did you hear about Haladki?" Weiss is breathless from his morning jog and I think mean thoughts about too much pizza and beer.

"Yeah." I finally look him full in the face and he steps back a little at what he sees in my eyes. He betrayed my trust. I might forgive him in time, but I won't forget what he did. "I'm late for my meeting."

"We'll talk later." The same words that Jack used. A friendlier tone, but no less ominous sounding. Not what I want to hear right now.

"Whatever." I turn my back on him and slink into the conference room.  
*******


	6. The Space Between

Conséquence-Alias, PG13-Vaughn

Peregrine

Alias is owned by ABC, Touchstone and is the creation of JJ Abrams and Bad Robot Productions.

*******

Chapter Six: The Space Between

"Sorry I'm late." Not really. Never wanted to be here in the first place.

Twelve sets of eyes staring at me. Devlin is pink, but he looks more pickled than tickled. "Glad you could make it," he says with that edge in his voice.

_I'll deal with you later._

Between rounds of golf and his weekly appointment at the massage parlor.

The only empty chair is on his right. The seat where no one wants to sit. He saves it for latecomers like me. The proverbial dunce cap waiting in the wings so he can humiliate me. I suppose I should cut him some slack. For the most part, he's been decent to me. I think it goes back to The Days of William. Sounds like a soap opera, doesn't it? In a way, that's exactly what it is. A fraternity that includes Jack Bristow and his ilk. Protecting each other's backs. Except my father wanted no part of it. Cronyism made him sick. I look around the room and see the usual suspects.

_Lambert. Devlin. Davenport. _

Where's Jack Bristow? Those four are always here. Lording it over...oh sorry, shepherding us poor lambs along. Yeah, I can see why it pissed off my dad. But I keep my mouth shut and take my seat. 

The meeting drones on for awhile about this committee and that subcommittee and someone's line item being excised from the black budget. Oh boo-hoo. Get over it already. I got bigger problems than their financials.

"Mr. Vaughn, could you please bring us up to speed on the Bristow case?" A new voice. Female. Familiar. I look up and see Judy Barnett in the far corner of the room. Slim legs crossed. Ash blonde hair cascading over her shoulders. Too attractive for a shrink. Hell, too attractive period. And I shouldn't be having these thoughts. My traitorous mind should be asking what she's doing here, asking questions that usually come from Devlin's mouth. And then it all makes sense.

_They already know. Jack briefed them yesterday. Replace Jack with Barnett. Put me on edge. See if I trip up._

"Which part of the Bristow case would that be?" Ah, Michael, you're so slick when you want to be. Deliberately obtuse.

"The whereabouts of the fluid we had in our vault." This comes from Devlin, and I realize I have it all wrong. They don't know a thing. Which means, no report on my activities in Taipei. Yet. They know something is up and figure they can work on me first. 

_Michael Vaughn is an honest man. Honorable. Responsible. A perfectionist. No stone is left unturned. He follows the rules. Carries the weight of the world on his shoulders. In short, he has the classic signs of generalized anxiety disorder._

OK, so it's pure fabrication. But I know that's how they see me. And they figure they can wear me down with intimidation. Throw in the shrink for good measure.

_They have a rapport. He likes to look at her legs. _

Scratch that last one. Honestly, I have no idea where Rambaldi's magic potion is. "I wish I knew," I say with perfect sincerity.

"Jack Bristow was the last person to sign into our storage facility and no one has seen him since. We thought you might know where he is." Lambert was joining the party and I remember why I dislike him so much. Smug son of a bitch with his golfer's tan. Sexist comments about Syd, treating her like she's a piece of meat.

"Sorry. I spent the entire weekend watching the playoffs." Half truth. I spent half the weekend on my lazy ass.

"So Agent Bristow hasn't contacted you?" Barnett asks, raising her thinly plucked brows into a permanent question mark.

Which Bristow is she talking about? "Nope," I reply, figuring I am off the hook. "Was she supposed to?"

Barnett and Devlin exchange uneasy glances, but they decide I am telling them the truth. The smirk inside of me fills me with my newfound snarkiness. It's a suit that fits me really well and I decide to keep it around for awhile. Because at the moment the door opens and Jack and Sydney intrude on the meeting, I figure I'm going to need my sense of humor.

****** 

She looks directly at me, then looks away. Is that guilt I see in her eyes, or something else? Are they about to hang me? The two of them have enough on me to end my career. I have no proof, but I have my doubts about Taipei. It all seems too easy. Our escape. Irina waltzing out of there. I saw nothing, but my dreams tell another story. That maybe I heard something....sensed something....and I've learned not to ignore my dreams. It's something that runs in the family. Trish has these visions....freaky ones that come true. And I seem to be cut from the same cloth, so who knows? 

The project meeting adjourns and I fold my hands. Waiting for the ax to fall. Willing to accept whatever they dish out. Devlin coughs and points to the door. "We'll call you back in when we're ready."

Closed session. Devlin. Jack and Syd. Dr. Barnett. I meander back to my office and find Weiss parked in my chair.

"So you want to hear the details?" Haladki again. 

"Do I have a choice?" I sigh. With an upward glance, I start counting the tiny dots in the ceiling baffle. Sometimes I connect the dots a certain way and see Taurus. Right now I see Aries and he's gearing up for battle.

"Look, I know you're still mad, but I did what I had to do." He gets up and lets me have my chair back. Swell guy, that Eric. 

"I'm sure you did." The soft way I always try to veil my anger isn't working now. There's a hard edge to my words that cuts my friend to the quick. His eyes flash with hurt and he twists his fingers together, sadly devoid of their usual yo-yo. 

"It's part of our training. We're not supposed to....do what you did." Weiss is right and I finally let his words placate me. "Wouldn't you have done the same in my place?"

Good question. "I don't know." My coin comes out and I watch the play of light as I manipulate it through my fingers. "But here's the thing. Right or wrong, I'm not sure I can trust you anymore."

"Ah." A single expulsion of breath, fraught with tangled emotions. Hurt overlaying confusion. And I see he remembers his words about trust being a tricky thing. "Maybe I should go."

"Maybe." I keep my voice neutral and finally meet him halfway, hoping he'll give me some reason to give him another chance. 

"But that's not what I want. You and I....we've been friends for a long time....watched one another's backs....and when you called me about Taipei, I didn't tell them."

The words echo in my head and I look at him sharply. Consideration. Weighing his words. The light of truth shines from Weiss like a beacon and a door opens in my heart. "How did you....."

"Back channels. Old favors. And Jack Bristow," Weiss says shakily, easing back into the folding chair against my wall. The man scares him. A sentiment I understand. The man can say anything and do anything and they turn their backs. Complete carte blanche. The ultimate double agent. Controlling everyone around him.

"So he told you...."

"About you and Syd? Yeah. When I told him you were alive, he got this funny note in his voice. That's when I started to worry....I was real happy to see you this morning. Alive. Unlike Haladki."

I drop the coin with a thump and steeple my fingers. "_Someone_ capped him."

"They did us a favor." Eric doesn't sound so sure about this, but it feels completely right to me.

"He said he had a source." Full of information about the battery. Its location. Everything. Pulled straight from the mouth of the horse's ass.

"Who worked for Khasinau." Weiss is quick on his feet and even faster at drawing conclusions. More often than not, he's right on the money.

"Something isn't right about this." I rise to my feet and scratch my forehead like I always do when I'm thinking. "I can't put my finger on it.....but it seems too simple."

"You think he had help?"

I suddenly remember my father's journal entry.

_There's a highly placed mole in the Agency. Too many missions have crashed and burned, too many secrets have ended up on the other side._

He dropped that idea when he caught up with Irina and never lived to follow through on that lead. "Yeah, and we're going to find out who it is."

"Cool," Eric says with a gleam in his eyes.

My phone buzzes. Devlin wants me upstairs. "I have to go."

"Good luck," Weiss says, patting my shoulder before disappearing out the door. 

I swallow hard, knowing that I'll need a lot more than luck to save me now.

*******


	7. Inquisition

Conséquence-Alias, PG13-Vaughn  
  
Peregrine  
  
Alias is owned by ABC, Touchstone and is the creation of JJ Abrams and Bad Robot Productions.  
  
AN: To the person who thought this was getting murky, sorry if you are confused. Do you read mystery and suspense novels? There are often many interwoven story threads and that is what I am doing here. I never throw something out without a reason and I generally resolve everything unless I plan on writing a sequel. This story is self-contained, meaning it will be resolved by the story's end. And when I write, I write for myself first. So if I lose a few readers along the way, that's their problem. And when you look at Alias, I think the plots can be somewhat confusing. I rest my case.  
  
******  
  
Chapter Seven: Inquisition  
  
Judy Barnett and Devlin. Manila folders resting on the table in front of them. Faces schooled into impassive expressions.  
  
"Please have a seat. We have a lot of ground to cover." Terse. Slightly reddened jowls brought on by too much fine whiskey. Broken blood vessels on his nose. The handsome but florid coloring of an Irishman given to drowning his sorrows. The Boston accent, barely diminished after all these years on the Left Coast. The product of Boston Latin School and Harvard before the Agency got a hold of him. But Barnett is an anomaly….she doesn't fit into the government's idea of a shrink. And I wonder at her continued presence. Do they think I'm mentally unstable? That I'd pull a gun on one of them?  
  
Barnett pulls out a pad of paper and points to a digital recorder. "I'll be taking notes and taping our conversation."  
  
Agency SOP in cases like this. I nod and wait for the questions. Devlin pushes a folder at me and says, "You've probably heard about Stephen Haladki."  
  
I open the folder and try not to gag at the crime scene photos. Technicolor nightmares of pallid flesh with perfectly rounded char holes in his forehead. The burn marks where a bullet creased his skull, separating his wiry hair with a permanent part in the middle. Death gives him no dignity, but I don't care. He made my life miserable and I'm glad he's gone. Why are they showing these to me? "Weiss filled me in."  
  
"We estimate his time of death as approximately 7PM on Friday night." Devlin stares at me, expecting me to flush or give myself away in some way. Like I had anything to do with this.  
  
"And you want to know where I was…." On my way to Taipei, as I'm sure they already knew.  
  
"Your friend Weiss vouched for you, but we'd like to hear your version of the story." Oh hell, they were really painting me into a corner. In trying to help, Eric had made things infinitely worse for me. He'd covered for me, but had forgotten to tell me what it was we were supposed to be doing.  
  
"We went to a Lakers game." I see them looking down at their notes before Devlin looks up and taps his pen impatiently.  
  
"Did they win?" Barnett asks quietly, dropping her little bomb as she smiles apologetically.  
  
Tap, tap.  
  
Devlin waits for my answer and I scour my brain for scores. Fatigue slows me down but I finally blurt out, "Yeah. I don't remember the exact score, but …"  
  
"It was 72-70." Another little smile from Barnett, not so contrite this time. "So, Mr. Vaughn…."  
  
"Please, call me Michael." Anything to keep up the pretense of a friendly conversation.  
  
"OK, Michael, you and Agent Haladki have had your share of differences. Would you say that's a fair statement?" Barnett to the plate again.  
  
"It's no secret that we didn't get along."  
  
"In fact, you threatened him with bodily harm on more than on occasion," Devlin asserts bluntly.  
  
More than one occasion? "That's not quite true. I got angry when he poked his nose into my business and I threatened to kick his ass, but that's hardly…." I saw what they were doing. Hanging this on a likely candidate. So if they didn't get me for Taipei, they'd nail me for capping the ratfucker (1).  
  
"But the intention is the same," Devlin says.  
  
"Maybe, but I didn't do this." In fact, I could hand them the perp on a silver platter. Like it would make any difference. Like they would do anything to Jack Bristow. I remembered his confession and how it shattered Syd. And I remembered my part in it. I was a different man that day. Sure the law was on my side. Ignorant of my father's journal. Until now. Until Taipei and the day that changed everything for me.  
  
"Perhaps not, but we know you weren't at a Lakers game." Barnett is one cool customer, coming up from behind and whacking me over the head like that.  
  
"So where was I?" I ask flippantly, startling a response out of Devlin, who flashes me this look. Like what the fuck? Perps weren't supposed to turn the tables. I wasn't supposed to act this way. My profile spelled compliance. Falling into line. Never the odd man out.  
  
Devlin leans over and whispers something to Barnett and I suspect that forcing their hand has moved things forward. Skipping over Haladki to their real business. Devlin sits back in his seat and puts me in his crosshairs. "You were in Taipei. On an illegal mission to spring Will Tippin. And while it was an honorable thing to do…"  
  
"It had disastrous results," Barnett finishes with a shake of her head.  
  
"Is that what they told you?" My gut is churning with anxiety but my voice is calm and measured. I hide my shaking hands in my lap, but I'm sure that her X-ray vision can see right through me.  
  
"Why don't you tell us what happened?" Barnett asks reasonably, stretching her lips into another one of those patently phony smiles.  
  
Is this my punishment for caring too much? I open my mouth to speak but the words die in my throat. Refusing to budge. "I don't really…know…what happened. They drugged me."  
  
"Then tell us what you remember," Devlin requests, peering at me over the top of his reading glasses.  
  
I want to be anywhere but here. On the driving range. Hiking with my dog. Watching a Kings game. Swimming through the sewer system of Taipei. Anything but this. "I almost died."  
  
It's not what they expect to hear and I'm glad that I've surprised them. "Go on," Barnett urges with a gleam in her eyes. "What were you thinking when you came up for air?"  
  
Oh, she's a clever one. Trying to get inside my head so she can explain my motivations for some other crime. Deliberately forcing me to relive that horrible moment when I broke through to the surface. "Not much."  
  
"Of course not. Most people would have been numb…." Barnett nods like she's been there.  
  
"I was happy to be alive." A bald-faced lie, but she didn't have to know that.  
  
"Of course you were. So what else do you remember?" Barnett gets up and my eyes follow her as she pours herself some coffee. Fifteen years too old for me. I know I should remember that, but she is my exact type. Full-figured and blonde. I look away, remembering why she is here. To nail me to the wall.  
  
Devlin has faded from the picture, taking a back seat to this smooth- talking shrink and I see why they've hired her. She's sharp as a tack. Doesn't miss a trick. And not too proud to use her looks when she needs to. "I remember garbage…..and shit floating around me. In my hair. On my clothes…."  
  
"I get the picture. But what was your state of mind?"  
  
She takes the seat at the head of the table and presses her breasts against the table. Seeing more of her than is prudent. When I screw my eyes closed, Sydney is superimposed on top of the good doctor. Blue hair and scanty clothes. Leather bra under lace. I remember that she smelled so decadent that I wanted to lap her up. Making it hard to focus on our mission. I open my eyes and stare hard at Judy's ice-blue eyes. "Like I said before, not much. My survival skills kind of kicked in…."  
  
"And you called Agent Weiss for help." She looks at her pad and waits for me to verify this fact. I know Eric didn't squeal on me, so they got the goods from someone else. No matter.  
  
"Yeah. He got me into the embassy, where I spent the night."  
  
"And you were about to fly home when Jack Bristow caught up with you?" Devlin takes center stage again and starts that infernal tapping again.  
  
"That's right." Rolling Stone interrupted. Rock hard fist clenching my arm.  
  
"He said you were less than cooperative," Devlin reports, reading off his pad.  
  
"Did he tell you why?" Let's put this back on poor Jack. After all, he's the real villain here, isn't he?  
  
Devlin almost smiles but catches himself in time. "Jack can be…very persuasive."  
  
"He had a gun and was ready to use it," I say snidely, "Which didn't exactly leave me a choice."  
  
"That's what I don't understand," Barnett interjects. "Why would you have even hesitated to help Sydney Bristow?"  
  
The question lingers in the air and I hang my head in contemplation. Let them think I feel shame….something other than the indifference that I felt that day at the airport. "Because, I knew she could take care of herself, and because……I am done with her."  
  
They both look confounded at my revelation. Deeply disturbed. "When you say done…." Barnett starts, but I cut her off.  
  
"She's someone else's problem now," I say with finality, sitting back and watching the hamsters spin the wheels in their tiny little minds, unable to contemplate that I want off the Bristow case. Forever.  
  
Devlin throws down his pen and rubs the bridge of his nose. "It's not that simple, Mr. Vaughn."  
  
"Sure it is. Assign someone else as her handler. End of story."  
  
Judy actually smiles at my naiveté. "I wish we could, but you see, she's implicated you…."  
  
"Implicated me," I echo stupidly. "What does that mean?"  
  
Lambert chooses that moment to interrupt the meeting. He ignores me completely and goes over to mutter in Devlin's ear. A long beat as they glance at me and make up their minds about something.  
  
Devlin finally says, "Something's come up. We'll continue this in the morning."  
  
Without a backward glance, the three of them walk out and leave me sitting there with my head in my hands.  
  
How could Syd do this to me?  
  
But I know the answer. It's in her blood. It's who she is. And she can't help but protect her mother. No matter the cost. As I saunter to the stairs, my dream comes back to me in vivid color. Haunting me as I take the steps two at a time. And I know I am close to a truth that will chain me forever.  
  
1 Ratfucker-- A term used to describe an infiltrator who has been planted in an organization.  
  
******* 


	8. Upstairs Downstairs

Conséquence-Alias, PG13-Vaughn  
  
Peregrine  
  
Alias is owned by ABC, Touchstone and is the creation of JJ Abrams and Bad Robot Productions.  
  
*******  
  
Chapter Eight: Upstairs Downstairs  
  
Weiss catches me on the stairs. "How did it go?"  
  
I make a face and shrug. "Not so good." When I try to move past him, he blocks my way with his arm. "What's up?"  
  
"You don't want to go down there," he cautions, lowering his voice when someone opens the fire door on the floor above us. "Let's go back this way."  
  
I follow him out the door and practically jog to catch up with him. "Want to tell me what's going on?"  
  
Weiss pulls me into the reference library and locks the door behind him. "Derevko passed through Customs this morning. If it weren't for her alias….."  
  
You know that sinking feeling? Well, a tanker just nose-dived in my gut. "She came in as Laura Bristow." No wonder they cancelled my interrogation.  
  
"Yeah." He locks his arms around himself and shakes his head. "Look, I don't know what went down in Taipei, but they think you're a threat. Security was waiting for you. I figure I'd warn you…."  
  
The door knob rattles behind us and Eric points his finger. "This way."  
  
We take the emergency stairs up to the parking deck. We're too late. Two goons are waiting next to my car. "Shit."  
  
"Sorry, man. I tried." Eric disappears down the stairs. I don't blame him for backing off. This isn't his problem and he's taken enough risks on my behalf.  
  
"Mr. Vaughn, will you come with us please?" I read the grunt's nametag. Wilson.  
  
"Have I done something wrong?" I ask as they frisk me.  
  
Wilson rifles through my pockets and takes my car keys. "You won't be needing those anymore."  
  
"What?" I retort, shaking off Wilson's restraining hand.  
  
"Mr. Devlin will explain everything. This way please." And I see that if I don't follow orders, they'll restrain me. So I let them flank me and we take the stairs two at a time. Down through the main office with me on display. The curious half moons of nosy Kilroys peering over their cubes. A tiny gasp from Alma as we pass her station and they practically shove me into Devlin's office.  
  
Devlin and Barnett. Robin Sherwood, head of Personnel. Unsmiling and stern. "What's this about? Can someone please explain why I'm being treated like a felon?"  
  
"Sit down, Agent Vaughn." Ms. Sherwood flash freezes me with an evil glance before stunning me into compliance with her garlic breath. "As of this moment, you are being relieved of your duties."  
  
"May I ask why?" A perfectly reasonable question. Really it is. I mean, I know what I did in Taipei, and I'm no saint, but agents have done far worse than me and continued to serve their country. So why was I being singled out for punishment?  
  
Sherwood plucks a paper out of Devlin's hands. "Failure to back an agent on a critical mission. Failure to follow orders of a senior agent. Indiscriminate use of a weapon. Failed attempt to take out the enemy."  
  
Her unpleasant voice drones on with a whole litany of sins and I let my mind wander. What hole did she crawl out of? Personnel scum. Haladki's old boss. Was she taking some personal interest in this because someone had changed his hairstyle…..permanently? And what genius came up with these charges?  
  
Failed attempt to take out the enemy.  
  
Who the fuck were they kidding? She was more valuable alive than dead. Even I knew that. They should be knocking me around for what I almost did, not slapping my wrist for not pulling the trigger. I start shaking my head vehemently and she stops in mid-sentence, saliva lining her mouth like Cujo. A perfect globule of post-nasal drip threatens to fall on me and I jerk away from her before she contaminates me.  
  
"Is there some problem, Mr. Vaughn? Do you refute these charges?" Sherwood croaks.  
  
I scrub at my hair and glare at them through my fingers. "You're railroading me. You need someone to blame, so you're using me as the fall guy."  
  
They don't deny it and it urges me to say even more. "What about tomorrow morning? What about hearing my side of the story?"  
  
Barnett clears her throat. "You were unconscious."  
  
"So what? Where's the justice in this? What you're doing here…..it's criminal. And what about the right to a fair trial?" I am practically shouting by now and I see that I'm finally getting their attention. No more Mr. Nice Guy. Just like Jackie Chan. Too bad I can't flatten them with some heavy equipment. Then justice would be served.  
  
"When the facts are clear…" Devlin starts, but I cut him off with my next flurry of words.  
  
"There's nothing clear about this case. And whatever facts have been established are being hidden by the three of you. Jack and Sydney Bristow testified, and I have a right to know what they said." I am running out of steam and I know what the next words will be.  
  
"I'm sorry, but that's classified. Eyes Only," Sherwood intones, looking down the twisted veins of her nose at me.  
  
"I see, so what do you plan on doing with me?" I might as well know the worst. "Suspension without pay?"  
  
"Nothing as drastic as that," Barnett explains, pushing a folder across the desk at me. Devlin and Sherwood take that as their cue to leave and I am left with the spotlight on Barnett.  
  
I know how this goes. They call you into a room at some odd time of the day. No one meets your eyes. They look down at their hands, at the floor, at anything but you. The thermostat on the wall is suddenly fascinating. And once the folder changes hands, they look at you nervously.  
  
How will he react? Will he rant and rave? Will he go postal?  
  
And it's like I'm underwater again, because when her words float to the surface of my mind, I hear compliments sprinkled throughout her prose. Dedicated. Honest to a fault. Empathic. All good qualities. But too impulsive. And there's nothing personal in this, but we have to make some adjustments. Good agents are usually reabsorbed. What they really mean is rehabilitated.  
  
I am a line item on someone's balance sheet.  
  
She peers at me patiently, waiting for some reaction. Something, anything, to guide her little shrink's mind. I stare at her mutely and shove the folder back at her. "Is that all?"  
  
"Don't you want to read what's inside?" Oh, I know what's inside. Standard termination agreement that I won't sue them or cause any trouble. Only way to get severance pay. Two stinking weeks after eight years of risking my neck. All for nothing. COBRA forms. Do I want to pay extortion rates for medical insurance? Unemployment insurance and pension booklets. All the usual bullshit that goes along with termination. A nasty word for the cold business of firing your ass.  
  
"Not really," I say after a long beat, enjoying the confusion on her face. "We both know what it says in there."  
  
"It's not what you think. Under the circumstances, they're being extremely generous." She can say that without a snigger. Amazing. How many drama classes did it take to get to this point?  
  
"Generous. Is that what you call it?" I sneer. With a short laugh, I grab the folder and fan the documents out on the table. Scanning the headlines, I am taken slightly aback by what I see. Change of status. A demotion, not a layoff. An hourly slob instead of a salaried stiff. Transfer from Clandestine Operations to Records. A recommendation for regular psychiatric counseling from her majesty, Dr. Judy. "Is this a joke?"  
  
She shakes her head. "It was my idea. Devlin wanted you out, but I convinced him to give you another chance."  
  
Myriad feelings swim through the narrowing channel I call a brain and I stare at her. "Why?"  
  
"Because I think I can save you." Barnett seems to believe what she's saying.  
  
"And what if I can't save myself?" I counter, my words gurgling up from some dark place, full of rotting emotions and a miasma of hate.  
  
She has no answer for that one and I watch as she leaves the room. Two seconds later, the goons are on me and lead me down the hall to my office. One cardboard box is all they give me for eight years of throwing my heart and soul into this job. Wilson and his goon-in-training stand over me as I retrieve my jade plant and the picture of Alice I tossed into the bottom drawer. Several sleeves of CDs and a Discman later, I am escorted to the elevator and led to the cavernous room in the basement that encases the files and records of the LA office. AKA the Morgue and the Mausoleum. Its overseer is my new boss. Pauline Fraehl. A librarian with a cybernetic heart. She is crafty and knows her way through a few loopholes. Trapdoors are her bread and butter and she's cracked her way into more than a few 'eyes only' databases to help us out. In return, we do favors for her. Get her coffee. Buy her lunch. Anything that will get us through the maze of bureaucracy that surrounds the files depository.  
  
Wilson drops my box on a gun-metal gray desk and holds out his hand for the key to my locker. "You'll be retiring your weapon and your permit."  
  
I dig through my wallet and throw my permit in their face. "Here you go. Have a nice day."  
  
They scowl at me and drag their knuckles on the way out. When I turn back to my new home, Paulie emerges from the stacks with a huge smile. "So, I hear you've been exiled to Limbo."  
  
She looks exactly like Fred on Angel. Tiny hands darting everywhere as she talks. Black horn rim glasses that have gone in and out of style since she bought them. Long brown hair butterflied to her head with clips. Nikes peeking under her sun dress. A shy smile as she perches on the edge of the desk. "Is that what they call it?"  
  
"We're the dumping ground for the disenfranchised." Another smile as she takes in my suit and tie. "Armani, right? No need for that here. This is strictly a T-shirt and jeans operation."  
  
It could be worse. I actually like Paulie. She's a geek, but I can think of far worse people to work for. And think of the money I'll save on clothes. "Where do I start?"  
  
She jumps up and wheels a cart over to me. Heaping files threaten to slide onto the floor. "Have fun. Call me if you have a question."  
  
And with that, I embark on my new career as a file clerk. Deported to the dungeon. Out of their hair. Off the Bristow case. One tug and my tie lands on the desk. Another yank and my shirt floats free of my dress pants. I rumple my hair and grab a bunch of files. Endless wandering down the aisles and my mind follows suit.  
  
It's not over. You'll never be free of her.  
  
Not Sydney and not her mother. Forever bound by our fates. With a sigh, I settle into my new domain.  
  
***** 


	9. Entrenchment

Conséquence-Alias, PG13-Vaughn  
  
Peregrine  
  
Alias is owned by ABC, Touchstone and is the creation of JJ Abrams and Bad Robot Productions.  
  
*******  
  
Chapter Nine: Entrenchment  
  
Three weeks later  
  
The Dungeon  
  
Weiss is a regular visitor to the archives. So much so that Paulie has to chase him out of here. "Looking for a job?" she jokes whenever he shows up.  
  
When she threatens to put him to work, he usually disappears. But today, he's managed to sneak in without her noticing. His yo-yo pops up and beckons me down the aisle and when I'm halfway to the end, he grabs me and pulls me into the men's room. "Want to hear the latest on Sydney?"  
  
I feign indifference but he knows I want to know. With sagging shoulders, I lean against the wall and wait for the scoop. "So what is it?"  
  
"Lambert's handling her." Three words that don't belong together in a sentence.  
  
"Whose bright idea was that?" I ask from behind a yawn.  
  
"Jack Bristow's." Now that was an eye-opener.  
  
"Huh?" Peers, but definitely not pals.  
  
"I had the same reaction. And apparently it's not going well. They fight like cats and dogs and she disobeys orders all the time," Weiss reports happily.  
  
"Have you seen her?" I ask lightly, hearing Paulie out in the warehouse, calling my name.  
  
"Yeah. She stopped by after your reassignment and asked me all these questions about you. I wanted to tell her what happened, but my hands were tied." Weiss sighs and shoves the yo-yo in his coat pocket.  
  
"Is she OK?" It's important that I know this so I can move past it.  
  
"On the surface, yeah. I'd say she's going through the motions and fooling most people, but I can see what it's costing her."  
  
He doesn't have to tell me about the costs of this job. Since I turned into a slacker, I've actually relaxed for the first time in eight years. Flexible hours and stress-free work. A funny boss who actually enjoys my music and lets me play it at full volume. "What about Jack?"  
  
Weiss gets this constipated look on his face and I wonder if I should let him sit on the throne in peace. "He's been….Jack. Sneaky. Nasty. The whole nine yards."  
  
"What about Sydney's mom?" At last we get to it.  
  
"Yeah, well, they lost track of her. She must have good connections, because she's dropped from sight. Sark has also gone missing and their entire organization has been very quiet."  
  
"Any luck with your latest hack?" Weiss was working with Paulie on gaining access to the database with Sydney's testimony. He probably figured it was his way of paying me back for ratting on me.  
  
"There's no trace of those files. It's like they've vanished. Paulie says they should have come down here by now. If she asks anyone, they'll get suspicious. So we have to be careful."  
  
Paulie's voice gets closer and I shove Eric out the door. "You better get moving."  
  
"I'll let you know when I find something. Later."  
  
*******  
  
I pass the stationer's every day and never go inside. Paper Lace. Next to the antique store where I bought Sydney's frame. Today I linger at the window and look at the display. Handsomely arranged paper samples for every budget. Pens, pencils, and art supplies. Diaries. Journals.  
  
Leather-bound black volumes. Just like my dad's.  
  
Only girls keep diaries.  
  
I am about to go in when I see her reflection. Reading a newspaper at the patisserie that is a hop, skip, and a jump from the spot where I am standing. Close enough to speak without attracting attention. "How did you find me?"  
  
"Careful detective work." The smile in her voice makes me ache inside. "So how are you?"  
  
How am I? Embittered? Resigned? Maybe both at the same time. "OK."  
  
A rustle of paper as she turns the page. "That's not what I hear."  
  
"What are they telling you?" Propaganda, no doubt.  
  
"The usual lies. So how are you really?" Concern overshadows everything else.  
  
I'm not ready for this. "I have to go inside now."  
  
The journals are carefully marked on the sign for Aisle 4. I know she is behind me and it's not long before she is sorting through the pens and pencils on the other side of the aisle. "Why are you running away?"  
  
My hands stop moving and I sigh. "Why do you think?"  
  
Now it's her turn to exhale. Forceful and frustrated. "I hate Lambert."  
  
The words hang brightly in the air, falling like a skein of ribbon from a mischievous girl's fingers. "I know. I'm sorry it has to be this way."  
  
But what I don't tell her is that I'm happier than I've been in years. That I like falling asleep at night without her problems wrapping themselves around me, indenting my skin like tightly wrapped twine. Marking me forever.  
  
"Me too." The whisper of her words as she turns and goes, defeated by my silence.  
  
"Wait." It stops her and I feel her staring at me. The holes of her eyes as she takes me in, my tired face reflected in the glass as I look back at her. Angry that she's followed me, but happy that she still gives a damn. "That day I saw you…..they wouldn't tell me what you said."  
  
"You know what happened." A spark of anger in her voice. Good. I can handle that. What I can't take is the tenderness. Misplaced affection or whatever it is that defines her feelings for me.  
  
"Do I?" And now I turn to face her, startling her with my sudden movement. Full profile as she considers my question. Fathomless eyes that hide many secrets. "I'm not sure of anything anymore. The people I trusted the most have stabbed me in the back."  
  
Her eyes fill with tears and she looks down for a moment, struggling to contain her emotions before they spill out like rusty water. "I had no choice. I had to tell them what happened."  
  
Truth and lies. Does one outweigh the other? "I suppose you did. So tell me, why did you let your mother escape?"  
  
The moisture is burned away by darker emotions that sweep away the sentiment and brand me with their intensity. "I did it for you."  
  
For me.  
  
The last thing I expect her to say. I'm not sure I know how to interpret her meaning. Because it can mean so many things. It might mean that she was worried about me. But it could also mean that she didn't want her mother's blood on my hands. Save me and she saves us all. Nice and neat. The perfect sunset to our Chinese adventure. "I'm touched."  
  
The old Sydney would have flinched at my sarcasm, but the spy who has risen from the ashes barely reacts to my tone. It's more like it registers on some level that she's dismissed. Discarded, like our friendship. Shelved for future reference. Gathering dust. "You don't believe me, do you?"  
  
I shake my head. "Did you make a deal with her? My life for hers?"  
  
Your life isn't worth that much.  
  
Her voice in my head. An echo of what I really feel. My own self-worth, shuttered and shattered by my beliefs.  
  
"You can't possibly believe that." Flushed with outrage at my accusation.  
  
"I don't want to believe it, but how else can you explain this? First I see you and your father being tortured, and the next thing you know, you're racing to Irina's rescue. Convenient, don't you think?" I snap.  
  
"I know how it looks, but it wasn't like that." She moves closer and touches my shoulder as she brushes past to look at some stationery. "You were drugged. That stuff they gave you….it made you delusional."  
  
"No." I cradle a black journal that looks far too much like my father's. "You're hiding something from me. I don't know what it is, but I'll find out."  
  
Sydney's shoulders slump in resignation and she throws up her hands. "Fine. Believe what you want. And while you're at it, maybe you ought to be looking at your own behavior. Never once did I question your motives. And I did nothing that you haven't already done to yourself."  
  
Now you see her, now you don't. All that remains is the faintest hint of her cologne, a whiff of the real Sydney. Gone from my life in a flash.  
  
***** 


	10. Denouement

Conséquence-Alias, PG13-Vaughn   
Peregrine (E.Klisiewicz)   
  
Alias is owned by ABC, Touchstone and is the creation of JJ Abrams and Bad Robot Productions.   
  
Chapter Ten: Denouement   
  
Three weeks later   
  


My new car is a black Jetta and my new parking space is at the very back of Lot 13. Where all the hourly workers park their cars. I make my way up the ramp to the salaried lot and that's when I notice the red Maserati. I mean, how can you not notice a hot car like that? It sits there and begs for attention.

The owner gets out and runs his freckled hands over its satiny smooth finish. The contrast between old and new is startling. Brand new paint and leathery skin marred by too many hours in the sun. A ruin of wrinkles on a once attractive face.

_Enraptured with the new ride that is way beyond his current salary._

He turns and walks away with that arrogant saunter of his and I feel a slow burn start to rise from my gullet. As I follow him down the stairs, I remember my recent conversation with Barnett.

"You're making good progress." 

I nod my head and paste an agreeable smile on my face. "Great."

"But we still have some work to do." She leafs through my file and stops at a page that interests her.

I cock my head and pretend to wait with baited breath for her next proclamation.

"For instance, there's your grudge against Agent Lambert." Judy watches me closely, but I give her nothing.

"I wouldn't call it a grudge exactly…." My voice trails off and I smile faintly. 

"Then how would you describe it?" she asks.

Shrinks live to ask these open-ended questions. The kind where you can hang yourself on the turn of a phrase. So I'm careful not to tell her that I hate the man for taking my place. He's not worthy of her and doesn't deserve to handle her case. He's classified her as a piece of meat that he wouldn't kick out of bed. That knowledge twists like a knife in my gut and extracts a memory from the dusty recesses of my mind.

_If you were paying me to analyze you…._

**Shut up! Stop it!**

_I've got to tell you, I'd actually say that maybe you're a little jealous._

**Of Agent Lambert? Give me a break! I mean, the guy may be senior but he's junior, trust me.**

_And now he gets to see Sydney every week, and it's making you crazy._

Weiss's voice fades away. "I don't trust him." A safe answer with a smattering of truth.

"Would you care to elaborate on that?"

I glance at my watch and see that I have two minutes to go. "Not really." 

She sighs and puts her pad down on the desk. "Why won't you let me help you?"

"I thought I was making good progress."

Another sigh and she gets to her feet. I'm what's known as a hard case. Flippant and unconcerned about my fate. Really, I don't give a shit if they deep-six me. And while Barnett knows this, she is determined to rehabilitate me. No matter the cost to her own reputation. "Our time is up. Let's continue our discussion on Thursday at 2."

Today is Thursday. On Wednesday, Lambert was driving a Ford. Today he has a Maserati. My distrust knows no bounds and I am determined to bury the bastard.

****

A bright pink post-it note is stuck to my Walkman. Loopy writing fills the paper. "You're late. Come to the media center when you get here."

The media center is where they store all the captured content. Stolen conversations. Clandestine meetings. You name it. They have it. Analog and digital. Tape, film, CD, DVD, and optical disks. All jammed together into a 20 x 40 hole in the far corner of the basement. 

I walk through the door and spot a bright set of eyes peering through a teetering stack of files. Like Curious George in a banana tree. Overwhelmed with excitement.

"What's up?" I ask.

Paulie emerges from behind the mountain of file folders and shoves a dusty records box at me. "Interesting reading in here."

I read the label and see that it dates back to the 70's. With a groan, I ask, "What now?"

"We're running out of space, so we need to start digitizing our older files." She perches on the edge of the table like a parrot looking for crumbs. 

"Let me guess. Digital cams and downloads?" Dirty, tedious work. Boring to the nth degree.

"Not just any digital cameras. Check this out." She plucks a tiny camera out of her pocket and hands it to me reverently. "6 Megapixel. 5x optical zoom. Video and audio capture."

It fits in the palm of my hand and bristles with bells and whistles. "They bought this for you?"

Paulie shakes her head with a laugh. "It's yours."

Now I'm really confused. "I don't…"

"You never know when you might need it. Have fun."

*******

Two hundred file folders with at least a dozen sheets of paper in each folder. You do the math. I carefully place each piece of paper on a white background and line up the registration marks. Point and shoot. When I fill up a flash card, I download the files to my laptop. Hour after merciless hour ticks by and I feel a crick form in my neck.

I fill my mind with anything but the task at hand and think back to the phone call with my Aunt Trish. Telling her what I can't tell my mother. That I've failed miserably as an agent. A disgrace to my father's name. She lets me talk. The consummate listener. Compassionate and non-judgmental. Everything that my mother is not. And she doesn't offer the usual list of platitudes that are meant to comfort but only serve to annoy me.

_I know you don't want to hear this right now, but maybe it's for the best. In a month or a year from now, you'll look back on this and laugh._

_This is a sign from God. You're meant to do something else with your life._

"So, tell me about your dream," she says in her heavily accented English.

"What makes you think I had a dream?" I ask lamely, knowing she can see right through me.

She laughs in my ear. "It's always about a dream when you call."

I tell her everything that I won't tell Barnett. Seeing Jack and Laura together. Lovers and conspirators. The kiss from hell and the way the dream hangs over me. Like the haze of a bad acid trip. My meeting with Sydney and the things I said to her. "What else am I supposed to think?"

Now Trish turns deadly serious. "Dreams are never what they seem."

"That's what you _always_ say." I know she is trying to reassure me, but it's not working. "But it seems so real."

"Of course it does. And you've learned not to ignore your intuition…..all of that is good. But you cannot interpret this literally. You do not know for sure that this Jack has conspired against you. And you don't know the whole truth about Sydney and her mother. What you have seen is symbolic." I know all of this, but I still need to hear it.

"Symbolic of what?"

I can almost hear her shrug. "That is not for me to say. But you'll know the truth when it finds you."

The next folder looks like all the others. Boring rhetoric in a vanilla wrapper. Neatly typed label in the lower right corner. 

_February 1976. _

Headlines scream out at me. 

_Five-alarm fire destroys director's Los Angeles home._

_Arson ruled out as the cause for the blaze._

Names jump out of the badly smeared newsprint.

__

Lambert. Davenport. Bristow. Devlin. Vaughn.

All listed as friends of the director. Photographed at his burial service. I look closer and see much younger versions of my father and his peers. Standing huddled in the rain. Dark trench coats and matching umbrellas. Somber reminders of what they really are. One figure stands out from the others. A woman with dark hair and eyes that burn through the sepia tones of the photo. A face I would know anywhere. One hand resting on the shoulder of a young girl. Standing far too close to the owner of the red Maserati. Invading his personal space. Ten feet away from her husband.

__

Laura Bristow and Peter Lambert.

I blink my eyes a few times but the images are still there, burned into my retinas. My hands are shaking as I finish up the last few folders. When I leave the room, the contents of the folder are stashed in one pocket and the digital camera is jammed in the other. I'm not a complete idiot. Lambert is hiding something and I plan on getting to the bottom of it.

******

"Meet me at 11. Big news."

Weiss has a key to the director's private bathroom, and whenever he's out of town, we use it as a safe meeting place. Out of all the privies in the building, we are pretty sure this one isn't bugged. 

He hands me a file. Eyes-only. Dated today. "Where did you get this?"

"Just _read_ it."

I am barely past the first paragraph and I feel the ground dropping away from me. Words explode in my brain like heat-seeking missiles.

_Level 1 security breach at our off-site facility. _

_No remaining Rambaldi artifacts._

_Source reveals that SD-6 has also been compromised._

The file drops to the floor and I sink to my haunches. Too much coincidence for me. With my head in my hands, I say, "I need a favor."

I know how his mind works and I can almost hear the questions fluttering around in his head. The old Eric would have jumped to my aid without hesitation, but the new one is trying to watch his back. Still, it's only a few seconds before he says, "Name it."

I look up at him and wonder if he knows what he's getting into. If I fail, this could blow up in our faces. "Can you get me a tracking device?"

"What's this about?" Of course he wants to know, but I can't get him involved.

"Can you get it or not?" Do I sound as tired as I feel? 

"Sure, but I need Devlin to sign off on it. And he'll ask questions….." He shrugs and jams his fingers in his pockets. No yo-yo to siphon off his anxiety.

"And you'll have answers to those questions. I need it before the close of business today."

Weiss sighs heavily. "Don't shut me out. If you don't tell me, then how can I protect you if something goes wrong?"

I weigh the consequences and decide that it's his choice to get drawn into my little vendetta. With a return of my shaky hands, I dig for the article and hand it to him. "Something I found in my travels."

It doesn't take him long to add it up. "Director Quinn and that fire. Wasn't he….oh _crap_."

I memorized the names of those twenty five agents that died for the cause. Director Quinn was on that list. "Yeah. I think we found our mole."

"The evidence is mighty slim," he warns.

"So we dig up more evidence." I hold up the digital camera. "I'll follow the Maserati and get the goods on him."

"What Maserati?" Oh yeah, how can I forget the best part of this?

"The red one in Lot # 10. One day he drives a Ford and today he shows up in a sports car. On the very day that our Rambaldi artifacts get liberated." I've learned to modulate my voice so I sound cool, calm, and collected. It helps me deceive the shrink, but Weiss knows me better than that. "I also need you to pull his personnel file."

Now he holds up his hands. "From under Sherwood's nose?"

"Get Paulie to help you." They have electronic records on everyone. Encrypted and encoded every which way, but no problem for someone like Paulie.

His face changes at the mention of her name and I realize that he likes her. "When do you need this?"

I needed this twenty six years ago when Lambert conspired with Irina to kill my father and all those other agents. And I need it now to right the wrongs that have been done to so many. "It may already be too late…..but this is our last chance to nail him."

"I'll see you up here at 4." Weiss is already out the door when he says this.

"Thanks," I say to the empty air. My voice bounces off the pristine tiles and mocks me with its echo. 

_Hollow man with a hollow life._

It's never a good idea to hang on the executive floor for too long, so when I hear people approaching, I duck out the back door and get the wind knocked out of me by none other than Jack Bristow.

******

Jack pushes me into an empty office. "We don't have much time. I assume that Weiss briefed you?"

I nod my head woodenly and wonder if puppets feel this way when someone's playing with them. "Yeah."

"Heads are already rolling upstairs, and they're on a witch hunt," he reports grimly.

Here we go again. "So it's not over."

"It's _never_ over. Expect to get called before the day is out. Sydney is also on alert at her end." 

Jack has always been intimidating, but never more than now. I'm not sure how I feel about him. If he tried to betray me, then why is he warning me now? With a heavy sigh, I admit, "They're wasting their time."

That comment interests him and I see straighten up even more. "Explain."

I extract the newspaper from my pocket and hand it to him. His eyes widen slightly and I realize he's never seen this. "Your friend Lambert gets around."

He crumples the paper in his hand and throws it at me. "What's your point?"

Ooh, _clearly_ I've hit a nerve. "Have you seen his new Maserati? 

Jack's already dark eyes blacken even more and I wonder if he's about to blow his stack. Maybe I should back off a little. When he doesn't answer, I add, "He usually drives a Ford, so I thought it was odd when he showed up in a red sports car. Kind of arrogant, don't you think? Especially after what's happened."

He's taking me seriously. "It doesn't prove anything."

"_Yet_." I smile and show him the camera. 

"_That's_ your plan?" Jack says with thinly veiled contempt. "You're way out of your league with Lambert."

"Maybe, but I'm not about to wait while everyone sits on their hands in some meeting. I'll tag his car and we'll see what happens when I follow him."

Now he shakes his head and his next words surprise me. "I've never trusted him. Not since the days when we all came on board. And when they partnered him with your father…..they were always butting heads."

My mouth is open but I can't help myself. Dad never mentioned this in his journal. "I didn't…..know."

"Sorry. It's just….." Jack stops when he sees the look on my face.

I swipe my hand across my eyes. "What were you going to say?"

"Bill used to go on about moles at the office. I chalked it up to paranoia, but maybe he was right."

"He suspected you….until he caught your wife with a Soviet sympathizer." The words shoot out of my mouth before I can stop them.

The muscles in his jaw are working overtime. "I remember, but how do you know about this?"

"He kept a journal." Black with gold trim. Wrapped in my mother's scarf and buried in a shoebox under my bed. "And he mentioned a mole…..but he never got to finish his work."

"So Haladki had help." Looking inwardly as he talks. Almost like I'm not there. "Look, you shouldn't go this alone. It's dangerous work and I can't get involved, but I know someone who can."

"Who?" He looks me square in the face and then it dawns on me. "You can't be serious."

Jack digs in his pocket and passes a CD to me. "It's all in here."

He's gone in the blink of an eye and I stand there staring at the disk in my hand. The evidence I've been waiting for? Vindication for my time in Taipei? I'm about to file his gift away when my pager vibrates. It's Weiss, and he has the goods.

****** 

We execute a brush pass in the cafeteria and I have the transponder in hand. I catch myself up short when I see Lambert and Devlin in the doorway, but they never look my way. I'm so low on the totem pole that I've become a non-entity. Too bad for them that they've discounted me so quickly. It's an easy walk to the stairs and out to the parking garage. 

I dart across Lot #10 and secure the transponder to the underside of Lambert's new baby.

_…you'll know the truth when it finds you…._

Will a neon sign flash at me in Morse code? Will the cop on the corner send me secret signals? It's _never_ that easy.

I return to the media center and see Paulie sitting in my chair. Waiting for me with a determined gleam in her eyes. "I've had a call about you."

"Really?" I feign ignorance and hope I'm projecting an innocent air.

"They want you upstairs at 2." She picks at her cuticles and watches me hopefully.

"What about Barnett?" The devil you know is better than the devil you don't know.

"Re-scheduled for tomorrow."

"OK." I wait for her to get up but she doesn't budge.

"So where you been?" Paulie asks brightly.

A dozen lies come to mind but they stall in my throat. "Me and Eric….we…."

"Sure you did." Now she gets up and waits for me to sit. She lays one hand on my shoulder and leans closer. "Your girlfriend was here. She'll be back at 1. Be careful, OK?"

Paulie pats my arm and jogs out at a trot. 

_My girlfriend._

There's that word again. Why does it keep coming up? 

_It's dangerous work and I can't get involved, but I know someone who can._

Am I the only person who doesn't get this thing between me and Sydney? I look at my watch and see that I have an hour to review whatever it is I'm supposed to see. The CD slides into my hand and into the player on my laptop. I close the door and wait for what will come.

*****

Devlin and Jack. Head to head. Davenport taking notes. Barnett pulling her shrink routine in the corner. 

_We can't support you on this._

**We're not in the habit of extracting civilians.**

_You've gone way beyond the call of duty._

**Use of excessive force. **

_Nearly sacrificing your daughter for the greater good. _

_No one sanctioned this assignment._

Talking heads. Words flying at him. And he sits there stoically, waiting for them to finish.

"What if your child was the one they were torturing? Would you sit back and wait for help to arrive or would you take matters into your own hands?" Jack's question is quite reasonable, but they have no answer for him.

Devlin confers with Davenport and they both whisper sweet nothings in Judy's ear.

Jack doesn't wait for them to come back with a snappy response. "I did what I had to do and I needed Mr. Vaughn's help."

"But he was less than willing, wasn't he?" Barnett asks. "In fact, you threatened him with a gun."

"Indirectly, yes." Well at least he admitted it.

"What happened when you got to the warehouse?" Devlin asks.

"I asked him to back me up and gave him an earpiece."

"When you say back up…." Judy knows perfectly well what it means but she likes to draw her victims out.

"He was supposed to alert me if anyone arrived on the scene. Which he did not. In fact, he went radio silent." 

My breath rushes out of me. I mean, I expected this, but it still feels like I've been sucker punched. Jack doesn't play by the book, but he's brutally honest. And it's not personal. I can see that now. Really I can. Distance and time gives me a little perspective. He's doing his job. He's doing what any agent is supposed to do. Report the facts in a clear and concise manner. 

"Do you know why he did that?" Barnett asks.

"He didn't want to be there, and he had no reason to trust me." Well what do you know?

A long beat before Devlin butts in. "Why not?"

_Don't they know about Russek?_

_I'd just learned that my daughter was about to be tortured, Mr. Vaughn. Most likely executed. I had no time to go for help. ….. And now you can judge what I've done. I don't give a damn what you do._

At the time, I understood why he did it, but Syd sure had a problem with it at first.

_If you know so much about Russek, then you know he wasn't with K-Directorate._

**It seems he was sacrificed, yes.**

_Well see, that's not a choice my dad can just make._

**What would you have done? Had it been your daughter? Or your son? Or Danny?**

That memory still haunts me. But what bothers me more is the way her opinion turned on a dime. 

_What happens when someone you care about is in trouble. What you said, that nothing else matters, that it all just goes away. Last week, when I learned what my father did for me, sacrificing Russek, it made me sick. But, now I know I would have done exactly the same thing. You should have seen him._

The two of them are unbelievable. Syd is morphing into Jack before my eyes. The darkness that she tries to keep at bay is destroying her. And while I still have a soul left, I can't let her take that from me.

"You remember my report on Russek." I know he regrets it. The life of a spy, the things he's done…..hell, the things we've all done. So not worth it.

"Yes," Davenport hisses, rubbing his eyes like he's wiping out the image of Jack.

"He knows the lengths I would go to. Were I in his shoes, I would have the same doubts." Jack is coming clean with all of this. Unbelievable. OK, so maybe I misjudged him. "He thought I brought him along as collateral."

"So you lost track of him, and then you were captured by Khasinau's men," Davenport says, breaking into a hacking cough. Perpetual smoker. Well on his way to emphysema and an early grave.

"Yes. I offered to trade places with Sydney, but they weren't interested. In fact, they were more interested in beating information out of us than making a deal." Not one iota of emotion passes across his face, but I remember the way he looked when they nailed him to the wall. And I know he remembers it too. It's there in his eyes. Just a flicker behind the mask that he always wears.

"And then Mr. Vaughn showed up with his own agenda…." Devlin looks at Jack over his glasses. So they saw me. Of course they did. Highly trained agents know everything that goes on. Even in a less than salubrious state, we mark every event as it happens. 

My agenda. They make it sound so formal. Like I had my to-do list prepared in advance. 

_Get gun._

_Knock grunts senseless._

_Take out Derevko._

It was nothing like that. Nothing even remotely rational lurked in my mind when I went rogue. It just happened. How can you explain what you don't understand?

"Yes, but they removed us from the room when she arrived." Jack says the pronoun with a slight sneer that is probably unconscious, but they pick up on it immediately. 

"And you say there were ten of them?" Barnett queries with a slightly dubious tone.

Jack nods. "Not counting Laura and Sark….yes, I'd have to say it was something like that."

Barnett turns a few pages and looks at Jack. "This is the part where I'm confused. How did you escape from them?"

"We didn't. They let us go." Jack looks as mystified as the rest of them.

"After _torturing_ you," Devlin says with an even greater air of disbelief than Barnett. "Do you have any explanation for this?"

He shakes his head. "None. It made no sense."

"Maybe someone was watching out for you." Davenport's suggestion comes out of left field and I rear back at the thought of it.

Jack considers this and shrugs. "Maybe."

The clip ends and I load the second clip. Sydney.mpg. One file on a disk that could change everything.

*******

She takes my breath away whenever I see her and she's no less beautiful on this grainy video clip. With hands folded, she looks at her three accusers and they seem to shrink back from the glare in her eyes. "I already filed my report, so why am I here?"

"We'd like to hear it in your own words." Barnett's honeyed tones do nothing to mollify Syd. If anything, they aggravate her even more.

"I was tortured and drugged. How much do you expect me to remember?" Syd spits.

"Agent Bristow, we appreciate that you've been through an ordeal……" Davenport starts, but she jumps in with both feet.

"An _ordeal_? Is that what you call it?" Fighting mad. "Tell me, have you ever been tortured?"

Davenport has flown a desk for his entire career. She knows this, but she asks it anyway. "No," he admits reluctantly.

"Has anyone ever extracted your teeth….without novocaine? Have they stuck needles in every orifice? Or how about putting you in a body press and breaking as many bones as they can in 60 seconds?" Anguished words forced out through clenched lips. Whitened fingers grasping the table.

Davenport shakes his head and looks at his hands.

"These events are unfortunate," Devlin says, trying to restore order. "And we regret what has happened to you, but…"

"So do I." Sydney tosses her head like a wild filly. "Ask away."

"How did Agent Vaughn get involved with this mission?" Barnett asks, and I see how this will go. They'll play on her emotions to bring me down.

Her eyes brim with tears and I know what she's thinking. The train station and all that stuff I said. "He followed me…it was his idea."

"So it wasn't your suggestion." Barnett needs confirmation. In case Syd left something out. Hoping to catch her with the trip wire of emotional distress.

"Not at all."

"Tell us about the flood." Devlin fast forwards to what they really want to know.

Syd is overcome for a moment. Words get stuck in her throat and emerge as a coughing spell. When she finally manages to speak, it comes out as a barely audible whisper. "I tried to _save_ him. I _saw_ him…..thought he drowned. Vaughn just faded….and was _gone_. Gone _forever_."

"And the next time you saw him….was at the warehouse." I watch the shrink's face and wonder if I am imagining the flash of apology.

Syd was on auto pilot now. "They strung me up….and then Michael was there. It was like seeing a ghost. I thought it was the drugs, but when they let me go and I saw his gun….aimed at my mother….and I saw their guns…..I had to make a choice…"

I barely notice the tracks of my own tears until they splash the keyboard. 

She said my name.

"And what was that choice?" Barnett asks gently.

Chocolate drop eyes plead with her inquisitors. 

_Don't ask me to do this._

A sob catches in her throat. "I couldn't let him do it. Couldn't let him shoot her. Couldn't live with that. There's been enough _death_….and God, the _thought_ of losing him again….so I stopped it. And they got away….and that's my fault. You can't blame him for this. If you want to blame someone, _blame_ me."

It's so like Syd to take this all on herself and so like her to see the good in everyone. What she said to me….it was all true. And all I could see was the shadow of my own dream. The miasma of my own distrust. But why the dream?

_Jack and Laura. _

_Laura and Lambert. _

_Lambert leering at Syd. Her amazing resemblance to her mother._

It makes me sick. I am going to stop this.

_She bites my tongue and I scream._

What the _hell_ does it mean?

Set me free from this nightmare. I can't handle this anymore. I am swaddled in the blanket of my own discontent.

And that's when I look up and see her in the doorway, frozen by what she sees on the screen. Her own face peering back at her. Crumpled like an old paper napkin.

"I'm sorry," is all I can manage in the moment that stretches to eternity, saved only by the sudden appearance of my boss.

"Hey," she says to Syd, then, "That thing you wanted? Here you go."

She hands me a thick folder and exits with, "Happy reading."

*******

"What's that?" Better than asking what I'm doing with her testimony.

"Lambert's personnel file." Happy illegal reading. I stuff it into my backpack and wait for my marching orders.

"We don't have much time." Syd looks all buffed and polished and I can't help but notice the new haircut. Tapered at the sides. Framing her face like a cameo. "Dad says Lambert hits the links at 3."

So I follow her through the tunnel and try to ignore the sway of her hips. Graceful as a gazelle, even in combat fatigues and Doc Martens. I direct her to Lot # 10 and Lambert's filly stands out like a whore at a debutante ball. "Now we wait."

"Here?" The walls are closing in on me and at approximately 2:00, I'll take my final bow. 

"You got a better idea?" she snaps.

"There's two hour parking on the street…shall we?" I start heading to my car and stop when I see her standing there, still staring at the car. "_Syd_?"

She seems to awake from a dream and comes jogging up to me. "We need to take precautions."

I blush, because what I'm thinking has nothing to do with the mission. "Sure. Follow me."

There's a guard shack on this level and I happen to know that Larry takes a three hour break on Wednesdays when he's downtown with his mistress. "You're kidding, right?"

"What kind of precautions did you have in mind?" I crack and watch the smile that threatens to break out on her face.

She digs through her pack. "Take off your shirt."

Maybe I was right the first time. "What…."

Syd tosses a Kevlar vest at me. "Can't take any chances."

"Right." I peel off my shirt and see that she's taking slow, careful inventory. Long sweeps of those damned eyes….scorching every inch of me. Mesmerized by the heat that shimmers from her in waves.

"Need some help with that?" Words softened by desire. Syd steps closer and takes the vest from my hands. Pulls it over my head and fastens it behind me. Nails grazing my arms. Head moving closer, she whispers, "Who's SG?"

So close and yet so far away. I blink at her a few times before the question registers. My tattoo. "Old girlfriend," I say hoarsely, overwhelmed by her proximity. "Dead."

"Oh." That breaks the spell. "Sorry."

She turns away and lets me finish dressing. "So why are you here?"

My question seems to surprise her. "I'm…..returning a favor….for Taipei."

I snort and roll my eyes. "A _favor_."

Her left fist balls up. "Look, I don't have to do this……"

"I never _asked_ for your help." Derision replaced by indecision.

Now her right fist is ready for action. "You can't do this alone."

"The last thing I want….."

Syd won't let me finish the thought. "_Damn_ you, Vaughn." She slams her right fist into the wall and nearly takes it down.

Keep your distance. Don't try to make it better. You're done with that game. "We better get into position."

She follows me to the Jetta without another word. Examines it with a raised eyebrow and holds her hand out for the keys. "Quite the _chase_ car you've got here."

Syd is baiting me and she knows how easy I bite. So I don't. Which stuns the hell out of her. "Drive to the street and park at the corner. He should be out soon."

On our way down the ramp, my phone rings. It's Eric. "Where the hell are you?"

"Street surveillance." I see that it's 2 and we make it out of the garage before they can stop us.

I can hear him chewing the inside of his cheek. "They just slapped me around for helping you."

"With the equipment?" What else could it be?

"With everything." He sighs and says, "Look, I did this voluntarily, but it's _got_ to stop."

Sydney sees someone leaving and zooms into a space. My head snaps back and I ignore her glance. "I know."

"Is she with you?" Paulie must have told him. He sounds resigned.

"_Unfortunately_." The cycle is repeating itself. Vaughn lusting after his agent. Sydney's lapdog. She doesn't belong here. The fewer people involved, the better. But she's in it up to her eyebrows and I have to let her be part of this.

"Well…..good luck." He hangs up abruptly and I figure that someone has walked in on him.

"What do we do now?" Sydney asks, more to fill a conversational space than anything else.

"Like you said, we wait."

****** 

"So you saw my testimony."

The silence has been deadly and I'm glad she's taken the first step.

"Yup." Better than a grunt.

"And?" It takes a lot of courage to broach the subject that we both want to avoid.

"I'm not sure what to think." I'm looking down at Lambert's file with half an eye and keeping the other eye riveted on the exit to the parking garage.

"But you believe me, right?" Sydney is unlike most women, but she's a product of her upbringing. One in which she tries to please everyone but herself. 

"That depends." Interesting. Lambert comes from a poor background. No family money. No inherited wealth.

"On what?" I know I'm pushing her, but someone has to.

"Get this. Lambert got into Harvard on a scholarship."

"Are you even _listening_?" Her hands drum mindlessly on the steering wheel and I wonder if she's practicing on my face.

Now she has my full attention. "Do I believe the story you told them? Not entirely."

"Why not? It's the truth." So controlled when she wants to be, but there's a lot going on under the hood.

"It's one version of the truth, but I'd like to hear the other version. The one you're not telling them. The one you're keeping to yourself." 

Without even looking at her, I can see the steam rising, but that's nothing compared to the inferno inside me. The one that remembers the dream and the feeling of utter betrayal. The one that picked up the gun without thinking. The one that lies in wait for that one moment, that one trigger to set me off.

"Here we go again….I _told_ you…." Syd cries.

"Why does it _matter_ if I believe you?" I've always wondered about that. Why does she care about my opinion?

"Because you…. _matter_…..to me." That last admission is wrenching and sad and it's all I can do not to reach out to her.

What do you say in response?

_You drive me crazy. I can't be around you anymore. You're bad for me. I feel better when I don't have to worry about you. My new job is the best thing that's ever happened to me. But when I'm not with you, all I do is think about you. Wanting you…wanting what I can't have. Tearing me apart._

"I want to believe you, Syd, but there's something missing. _Something_ that doesn't make sense. Our enemies wouldn't free us without a reason. I think….you _gave_ them a reason." I pick and choose my words carefully, but it's no less horrifying when I say it.

_You betrayed the cause._

She flexes her jaw but is instantly distracted by the sudden appearance of a Maserati. "It's show time," she intones, her voice low and deadly.

*****

The traffic is always heavy in L.A. and today is no exception. My faithful watch says 2:45 and I wonder how Lambert plans on hitting the links on time. Unless he's going somewhere else. Because by my nearest estimation, it will take him at least a half hour to get to the nearest golf course.

We head onto the freeway and Sydney says, "Where the hell's he going? Ventura Beach is in the other direction."

That's where Weiss lives. And he stays as far away from the sand traps as he can. "Why would he go there?"

"He's a member….golfs with Devlin." I aim the receiver and the transponder beams back a signal just fine.

It figures. The Maserati picks up speed and my Jetta is barely up to the task. When she gets up to the red line, I warn, "You plan on replacing my car?"

"We can't lose him…..if he gets off somewhere…."

I show her the receiver and she instantly backs off the accelerator. "We have this. Remember?"

"Yeah…right. I forgot." 

We drive in silence for a good ten minutes and the signal starts getting fainter. "I think we passed him by. Take the next exit and turn around."

That chews up another fifteen minutes of strained silence. Eyes avoiding each other. Focused on the mission. The way it always should have been. Not this damned morass of angst. "Vaughn, we're close to the observatory. Think he went up there?"

Remember what they told you at Langley. The Soviets always prefer to meet outside. They feel more secure. "Yeah. And I'll bet your mother's up there too."

"Or she's on her way." Now we're in concert and I breathe a sigh of relief that we can forget our personal differences….at least for a moment.

"Do you ever….meet him up there?" It used to be one of our special places. It was where I told her that I shared her feelings. That I wanted more than the status quo. What a mistake that was. Look what it started. Where will it all end?

Syd shakes her head and we climb the hill to the observatory's twin domes. "_Never_."

We crawl at a snail's pace and turn into the parking lot. He's at the far end, sitting on his hood, leafing through a magazine. A dozen cars lie between us and she inches the Jetta under a shady tree. "We need to stay low. What else did you bring?"

She fishes a camera out of her bag. An SLR model with a huge telephoto lens. "Good. We also have audio."

I hold up the digital camera as a joke and she smirks. "No way."

"Actually, we have a digital feed from the transponder." The afternoon light paints her in a flattering light and I snap her picture.

"Stop that." Syd starts wrestling with me and almost snatches the camera out of my hands. We are as close as too people can get in a Jetta without doing the nasty. She stops suddenly and stares at me, doe's eyes blinking at me. Bambi. More innocent than she should be. "I wish….I could take it all back."

"Me too. But we can't." My pulse rate has ramped up and I'm sure she can hear my heart pounding against my rib cage. And then I stroke her cheek with my free hand, following the contours of her face and tucking her hair behind her ear. Her eyes close and I hear the intake of her breath as I drop my hand to her shoulder. Glancing along her collarbone. Running down her arm and brushing her thigh. Hardened with muscle. 

Syd lowers her head and rests it against my shoulder. "Vaughn. What you said before….you were _right_ about me."

The moment of truth is interrupted by the arrival of a black Mercedes. Shiny and new. Out of state plates. Tinted windows. It glides past our hiding place and proceeds to the far reaches of the lot. Half a dozen yards from the Maserati. "Get the camera ready," I hiss, shoving my earpiece into my ear and putting the recorder on hold.

And it happens. Doors open on both sides. Khasinau and Derevko emerge, followed by two knuckle-dragging grunts. Syd and I look at each other. Frozen. Not believing that the impossible is about to go down. Then her instincts set in and the camera starts whirring. 

They are talking quietly. In Russian. Lambert speaks it like a native. Irina waves off her second in command and approaches the Maserati. Runs her hand over its hood. Then turns and embraces Lambert. The way they are hugging. Not just comrades. Lovers. And when they turn slightly, they are kissing. Ardently. Open mouthed and extremely passionate kisses. 

_Just like my dream. Except it's Lambert in Jack's place._

Syd starts gagging. "Take the camera."

She's out the door and under cover in a matter of seconds. Tossing her cookies. But the show must go on. And it does. Interminably. 

****** 

I grab the digital camera and find that its optical zoom is really powerful. In no time at all, I use up the flash card, but it's enough to hang Lambert. Full facial shots. License plates. A personalized soundtrack. The whole nine yards. 

Syd staggers out of the bushes and lurches against the car. And that's when they see her. 

No kidding.

_My cup runneth over._

Call for backup," she orders, a gun magically appearing in her hand as she heads back to the treeline.

Bullets start pelting the car and one almost takes my ear off as I duck and hit the speed dial on my cell phone. I am half out the door when Weiss answers.

"Yeah?" Gee, not even a hello for his oldest friend?

"We need your help." A bullet sings by my ear and embeds itself in the driver's side door.

"Is that gunfire?" Now he sounds worried.

"Yeah. Send a team….half a dozen or so….Griffith Park….we have Khasinau, Derevko, and Lambert…." I fling myself to the ground and have the presence of mind to empty my pockets. Using my pitching arm, I toss the flash card and my tape recorder into the woods. 

"Vaughn….you're breaking up…."

"Hurry… not much time." And that's when I see a set of feet. Clad in elegant shoes. Italian if I'm not mistaken. Flanked by two wooden sticks with rubber stoppers. 

_Crutches_. But that can only _mean_…..I look up and see Sark. And he's not amused. Most definitely not. In fact, he looks rather annoyed. And he has a gun pointed at my head.

"We meet again," he says in that velvety accent that makes my blood curdle. And without preamble, he pulls the trigger and the dart centers itself in my forehead. Parting its multiple creases.

My head hits the ground and my vision starts to blur. "Oh, crap. Not again…"

Stronger drugs this time. His face looms over me, upside down, looking perfectly pleasant in that English way he has about him. A true gentleman to the end. "Until next time," he says with a tiny smile, and that is all I remember.

*****

Round two. Someone is cradling my head and I look up and see her. She touches my brow and I feel a bandage. "How long was I out?"

"Twelve hours." 

I try to sit up but the room is still tilting like Don Quixote. Whirring about like the proverbial windmill. Syd hands me a cool glass of water and it tastes like a piece of liquid heaven.

"Thanks." I look around, alarmed that I don't recognize my surroundings. "Where are we?"

"My dad's house." Should I be worried about this? Were the two of them ganging up on me? How paranoid should I be after getting tranked for the second time in two months? Really, enough is enough. 

"Why…..what happened?" My thoughts are randomly scattered like the bits of evidence I gathered. 

"You should rest." Jack approaches from the kitchen. Garbed in his perennial suit with his perpetual mask still in place.

"Did we catch them? Did we….." I know what I want to say, but my words twist around themselves and come out garbled.

"Easy, son." Jack rests his hand on my shoulder and forces me to lie down.

_I am not your son. Don't even go there._

My eyelids start to get heavy and I realize they've doped me. That not so perfect drink of water. I should be angry….but all I want is sleep. And so I surrender to the welcoming arms of slumber.

****

The harsh light of day wakes me up. Lying down. On a different couch. Head still bandaged. Pounding from whatever they gave me. And I see Syd. Sprawled in a chair. Looking rather haggard. And that thought pleases me. To know she's not perfect. That she looks like hell in the morning.

But what alarms me is the gun in her hand. Fingers curled around the trigger. Relaxed in sleep. Safety in place. 

_Does she plan on shooting me?_

Lambert's file lies open on the coffee table. Some of the pages are pulled out. Items highlighted in yellow. Not a total loss then.

A shadow crosses the doorway and I see Weiss, fiddling with his yo-yo, talking on the phone. Sotto voce.

_This is a safe house. They've moved me._

Should that thought comfort me? That we did some damage to the other side? That they're after us for some reason?

I feel someone watching me. Syd is awake. She puts the gun down and walks over to me. Lowers herself to her knees. Pats my arm. "How are you feeling?"

Good question. I'm pissed off. Confused. And hungry. "Coffee." It comes out as a growl. Then I remember. "Fresh coffee. You have some too."

Drug me and she drugs herself.

I get to my feet and manage to steady myself against the wall behind me. When I get to the kitchen door, I see Weiss rummaging in the cabinet for some java. Syd is murmuring, but I hear snippets of her conversation. "Doesn't trust us…..don't blame him…."

Weiss shrugs and hands over a packet of coffee. "Hey, buddy. You had us worried."

_Way_ too friendly. And far too cheerful for my tastes. "Why am I here? Why did you drug me?"

My thoughts are lucid, and my diction is finally normal. No thanks to them. 

Syd starts the coffee pot and moves to within a yard of me. "You have no reason to trust us…."

"You _think_?" I toss out angrily, ripping the bandage off my forehead and bouncing it off the trash can. A trickle of blood leaks down my face and I ignore her helping hand. Spotting some paper towels, I tear off a sheet and wad it up against my wound.

"We had no choice. You were in no shape…."

And I interrupt again, "It wasn't your _choice_ to make. As for trust….that's a _fucking_ joke." I crash into the kitchen table, as unsteady as a newly born colt. Her hand comes out again and I swat at her like a bug. Her mouth opens in shock. She's never heard me swear, and definitely never seen me in a fit of temper. Other than the times I chewed her out over breaking protocol. 

"Lambert is dead." Little explosions of sound as it forces its way through her perfectly shaped lips.

This does not compute. Last time I checked, he was in good with the Soviet faction. Consorting with the enemy. In plain view of the public. Almost like he was thumbing his nose at us. And slipping his tongue down Irina's throat. "_How_?" I bark.

Weiss pipes in, "PPK 9 mm bullet. Point blank range. Perfect hole in his forehead."

_So the bitch killed him. Will her daughter also be the death of me?_

"The kiss of death," I crack, but no one but me thinks it's funny.

"You were right about him." Weiss rolls up his sleeves and starts washing dishes. Funny, I never would have pegged him for the domestic type. "His deals go all the way back to the '60s. And after a bit of digging, we discovered his long lost relative. Are you ready for this? Kim Philby is his adopted cousin."

"No way." 

"_Way_. So his Red connections go way back….and the Agency didn't catch it. Doesn't say much for us, does it?" Weiss is pinch hitting for Syd because he knows I'm too pissed to think clearly.

"What about the others?" Sark. Khasinau. Derevko.

Eric wipes off his hands. "I better let Syd tell you this."

And we are left. Two actors on the stage. Gauging each other. Wary. Syd pours out coffee in two oversized mugs and offers one to me. Her hands shake and it almost spills on me. I anchor it with fingers that tremble for different reasons and watch her carefully. "So tell me. All of it."

Her mouth moves and I am reminded of a silent film star. Glamorous. Emoting with her body. "I don't know where to start," she says, flitting around the room and finally landing on a stool.

"Try the beginning. The deal you made in Taipei. The truth you were about to tell me." My voice is harsh. Acrimonious. Relentless.

"That's….well, what you heard on the tape….was the _truth_. And what I told you before….was true too."

_I did it for you._

"But that's not all of it…." Statement of fact. Not a question.

Sydney laces her fingers together tightly. Like she did on the tape. Fending me off. "Not all of it….no."

"So let's have it."

She sounds unfocused at first, dreamy, inward turning as she remembers. Then her voice takes flight and is underscored with a web of emotion. "When you came….they had tortured me for hours. I told them nothing….didn't _care_ what they did to me. Didn't matter if I died. But _Dad_….they took him and started taking him apart….he wouldn't talk….they would have _killed_ him….I had no choice."

No choice. "There's _always_ a choice."

"You don't _understand_…..she was there. When she arrived….they were about to finish him off. She told them to cut me down….said she would deal with me. And that's when you….had that gun. And I knew…._knew_ you would do what I couldn't bring myself to do….so I _had_ to stop you. Because it was _impossible_….we had no chance against them. So I gave her what she wanted. To save you and Dad."

The breath I've been holding escapes like a slow leak in a balloon. "What did she want?"

"The codes…Rambaldi. It seemed so _simple_. Some numbers to save two lives…but I _swear_, I didn't betray the CIA. All I gave them was SD-6 intel. The rest must have come from Lambert," she explains, desperately wanting me to believe her.

It all fits together. Except the bits from my dream. And maybe that's my inner voice telling me to get out completely. Before she drowns me. Before this life takes over. "I believe you….but I don't know if I can ever trust you again."

And that's where we leave it. I place the coffee mug on the table and walk away. Leaving her there. Staring after me like a lost soul. Hands still clenched. Part of me aches for her. Part of me wants to turn back time. To when it was simple. When all I had to do was look at her to make my day. Before the darkness took hold.

"Wait," she calls, but it's too late.

I'm done with this life. 

***** 

There is one more chapter after this one. Stay tuned. 


	11. Requiem

Conséquence-Alias, PG13-Vaughn 

Peregrine (Elizabeth Klisiewicz)

Alias is owned by ABC, Touchstone and is the creation of JJ Abrams and Bad Robot Productions.

Chapter Eleven: Requiem 

Four weeks later

Lambert is gone. Dead. No funeral with honors. He went out with disgrace. By now, everyone knows he was The Mole. Kind of like The Man, except in reverse. What a pair they made. But the rest of the details are lost to me. I've tried asking questions, but it's all classified. 

_Omega 17._

No one will talk to me. Even Weiss is playing deaf, dumb, and mute. And Paulie? Forget it. She's done with me too.

It's an ordinary Monday like all Mondays. I arrive late. Cap on backward. Kings t-shirt. Shorts. Nikes. I drop my backpack with its load of CDs and put my commuter mug in the corner. And then I see it. Sticking out of my bottom drawer. Yellow interoffice mailer with all its names crossed out. No routing information. I unwind the string and almost drop the mailer when I see what's inside.

A black journal with gold trim. Exactly like Dad's. I withdraw it gingerly, treating it like a mirage. But it's very real. No oasis in sight, not even the musical kind. Well-thumbed pages. I crack it open and see a bookplate with a smoking gun.

_Sydney Laura Bristow._

_Damn_. She's even named after her mother. Two peas in a pod. Treacherous waters. Every time I think I'm past it, I backpedal. 

Words fill every nook and cranny. Bottom and top. Spiraling around the edges. Crammed into a small space. Compressed, like her life. 

It dates back to May. When it all started to unwind. The title of the first entry makes me smile.

_Fractured fairy tales._

Like the old cartoons, except this is real life. Her life. And she can't seem to let it be. Can't seem to let me go.

_May 16th, 2002_

_I started writing this when we got back home. Because it seemed like the right thing to do. Real words that I have to form with my hands. Hands that have killed in the name of justice. But whose justice? Who weighs the balance? Uncle Sam, or some other fictitious character? It's all a bit surreal. Like that day I thought I lost you. That's right. You, Vaughn. You're the lucky victim that I've chosen to catch the brass ring. I wish I could tell you why, but I'm fresh out of answers. _

_Why not Will? After all, he already knows way too much about me. But he's not you. He's not a good listener. You heard me. He's a journalist and he's used to grabbing facts out of the thin air. But when it comes to the personal stuff, forget it. _

_I can't even begin to understand what you've been through....because of me. _

_Because of you._

She underlined those three words with heavy pencil. Bearing down so hard that she tore through the paper.

_You've underscored my importance, but I don't see it. Don't see how saving the world will make a difference in the end._

_Because she's still out there. Gunning for us._

My cell phone rings. It's Aunt Trish. "Has the truth found you yet?"

This is like something out of the X-Files. "Maybe."

"I have seen this. Something about words....am I right?"

Downright eerie. "Yeah."

"And the rest of your dream....have you made sense of that?" 

"Not all of it. But I think I am close...."

"Listen, I have a proposition for you. There is a local art gallery...." She coughs in the background and continues, "It needs a manager. And I think you'd be perfect."

Another talent that we share. A hidden passion. One of those dream jobs that never make any money. "Me? I'm...." Well, I'm not a spy anymore, but I still work in intelligence.

"I've told the owner that you'll meet him on Tuesday at 10. Trompe L'Oeil. W Street in DC." I hear the flare of a match and can imagine the smoke rising around her face.

"No way. I can't just take off at a moment's notice," I protest, knowing it's no use. When it comes to the battle of wills, Trish always wins. 

"And what is so important? Shuffling files around? Batting your hockey stick about?" That's on Tuesdays and Thursdays, but I won't tell her that.

"The timing isn't right."

"The timing has _never_ been better. If you turn your back on this, I swear you will regret it," she says curtly before hanging up on me.

I stare at the phone and feel the goose bumps rise on my arms. 

_Still creepy after all these years._

Downright ominous. A warning if I ever heard one.

Paulie hovers at the fringes of my vision and I say, "I need to take a few days off. Is that OK?"

"No problem. Take all the time you need. You've earned it." She smiles and is off on another occupational tangent. 

I tuck the journal under my arm and decide to take the rest of the day off. 

*******

"I thought we were meeting for lunch," Weiss gripes.

"Sorry. Something came up....hey, could you feed Donovan for a few days?" He's licking my ankles and I'm hard pressed not to laugh out loud.

"Where you headed?" 

"DC. To see Trish." It sounds so weird when I say it.

"You haven't seen her in what....ten years?" Eric asks.

"Something like that. So, can you do it?" No sense giving out too much information.

"No problem. Leave the keys in the usual place. Gotta go. Duty calls."

Click. Friendship lite. That's what I call my relationship with Weiss. Ever since that day at the safe house....I shake my head. Remembering the way I steam-rolled out of there. The end of a great friendship. Because Weiss is culpable. He knows what happened and he won't tell me. 

Why are they doing this? Why the big mystery about Laura Bristow? Oh, I get that I don't have the clearance, but at a personal level I deserve to know why they put me out of action.

I throw some clothes and the journal into a duffel bag and head for my car. What the hell? I'll drive across country and see the sights. No planes, trains, or busses. Just me and the wind and the road under my wheels. No distractions. No worries. And no Sydney. 

Say it three times fast. 

_Words on a page can't hurt me._

I didn't know how wrong I was.

******

_My heart is drenched in wine_

_But you'll be on mind_

_Forever_

Norah Jones, I Don't Know Why, lyrics by Jesse Harris

Vegas, baby. An easy cruise on Route 15. Desert breezes ruffling my already tousled hair into a permanent wave. Glittery neon lights and hookers beckoning at me as I find parking.

_I feel lucky tonight._

Not get lucky. Feel lucky. So I blow the twenty dollars in my pocket and leave when I break even. Some gambler, huh?

I find some hole in the wall motel for thirty bucks a night. Empty parking lot. Night sky stretching as far as the eye can see. Fine bottle of wine in my hands. Sultry breezes and the spicy smell of Tex-Mex stir up my blood and reminds me of her. With a Norah Jones CD and Syd's journal for company, my night is complete. 

_June 5th_

_I finally tracked you down. It wasn't easy, but I followed you after work. Not much of a detective, am I? _

Even when she's not with me, she's with me. In my heart. Always on my mind. Like I can ever escape her. I take another swig of wine and read on.

_You looked so sad today. I wanted to make it better, but all I do is mess things up. The way you were standing there with that journal in your hands...cradling it like a baby....the same kind I bought. I remember what you said about your dad, and after what happened in Taipei, I thought you were lost for good. So I needed someone to talk to and got the journal._

Replacing me as her Father Confessor.

_I want to tell you how much I miss you. And how much I've taken you for granted. My faithful handler. I didn't realize what I had until it was gone. Replaced by a man with no heart and golf balls for eyes. All that stuff I kept from you....Noah....and our attempt to save Will....I shouldn't have done that. I should have let you in right away. But with Noah....it was different. There were unresolved feelings and I didn't want to hurt you. And I could see how you cared....too much for your own good. So now you're angry and you don't want to see me. With good reason. You shouldn't trust me. Hell, I can't trust myself sometimes._

I know the feeling.

_What I told you was the truth. I did it for you. And for Dad. Neither one of you should suffer....because of me. Because of the woman I call my mother. I look in the mirror every day and see more of her in me. The side that seems to grow when the sun recedes from the horizon. Eyes glittering. My heart of darkness._

_You're holding this now because you deserve to know what happened. All of it. Uncensored by the agency's black pens. Not that they would tell you....if they even knew this journal existed they'd burn it. So get rid of it when you're done. Free yourself while you still can._

*******

_When I saw the break of day_

_I wished that I could fly away_

_Instead of kneeling in the sand_

_Catching teardrops in my hand_

Norah Jones, I Don't Know Why, lyrics by Jesse Harris

I interrupt the motel manager's beauty sleep and check out at 6 AM. Judging from the curlers and cold cream, she has a lot of sleep to catch up on. With a colorful string of curses following me out the door, I hop in the Jetta and hit the highway.

Route 15 across the tip of Arizona and northwest to Route 70. I reach Grand Junction by the early afternoon and decide to keep driving. When I finally collapse, I'm on the outskirts of Denver. Another fleabag motel off the main highway. Greasy spoon next door with the jukebox cranked up. 

_Dixie Chicks. Alison Krauss. Conway Twitty. _

Not as bad as it could be. I actually own the Alison Krauss CD. But not what I want to hear at this hour. After seven hours of mindless sleep and the realization that I have to be in DC in a few days, I decide to fly the rest of the way.

Impulsive and totally unlike my usual self. But necessary. It's either that or two days worth of cornrows as I drive across Kansas. No thanks. No Smallville and no Clark Kent. Too bad about that. I could use the airlift.

I book a last minute ticket on a red-eye and wing my way out of Denver. It's a toss-up between the journal and the airline magazine. Sydney wins out.

_June 15th_

_I miss you, Michael. It sounds funny to say that as I write. I mean, that's how I think of you, but I never say it. A first name is like a gift....a privilege I haven't earned yet._

**They strung me up....and then Michael was there.**

Uttered in the heat of the moment. 

_Dad told me she got through Customs. I'm not sure how I feel about that, but I'm scared for all of us. No telling what she might do. Or how you might react. They're worried about that. That's one of the reasons they demoted you. They don't like rogue agents. Neither does SD-6. I haven't said much, but Dixon suspects me. He caught me coming out of the water when I stole the journal page. And they've been asking far too many questions. Lambert is useless as a handler. Have I said that I hate him? I hate the way he looks at me and I hate that note in his voice when he talks to me. No respect. Only this oily feeling I get on my skin when I'm around him._

My fists clench involuntarily. 

_He's dead. He can't hurt anyone now._

My traveling companion is slumped back against the seat, snoring over her yellowed Agatha Christie novel, pince nez glasses bobbing on her matronly breast as she sleeps. I turn back to the journal and read on.

_You never made me feel that way. I always felt safe around you. Like a safe harbor. That time on the pier....I'll never forget what you said to me. I wish it was still true. I wish I could take back all the bad things. And wash away the distrust. But it's too late, isn't it?_

I wish I could say she was wrong. I wish I could erase the past, but I can't. What I can do is start over. By myself. Away from her.

*****

Dulles International Airport. Unlovely name for an even uglier airport. Industrial haze hanging over the city on a late Sunday afternoon. Light traffic. No hazmats allowed. If you've driven along the Beltway, then you've seen the signs.

I park a block away from Trish's townhouse and discover that she's out. No problem. Key under the flower pot on the back stoop. No security system except her cat Max. I practically trip over him on my way into the kitchen.

A note is propped against a bowl full of apples. 

_I know you will make yourself at home. Out exorcising._

That's spook humor, and I don't mean spies. Trish is a bonafide ghost-hunter and has earned a name for herself in spectral circles. 

I look around and discover that not much has changed since my last visit. Same country kitchen with its brick facings. Splashes of her artwork everywhere. Landscapes. Pointillism. Cubist sketches. Surreal and abstract. Brazenly talented and keeping it all to herself. 

A tour through the lower half of the house reveals the same burnished wood floors and comfortable French furniture that she bought at an estate sale somewhere. Photos everywhere of her friends and family. A picture of me and my father, hands joined as we gaze out at the Pacific Ocean. The frosty façade of my mother Marie on her wedding day. Trish as a teenage groupie, waving from the back of the Jefferson Airplane's tour bus.

A quick scan of her music collection reveals her eclectic tastes. Everything from Rossini to Rasputina. I settle on an old Kinks album and skip forward to Big Sky. One of my favorite songs of all time. Then I find her recliner and put my feet up. 

Next thing I know, I am waking up from a sound sleep with my aunt shaking my shoulder gently. "Come have some breakfast."

It's been ten years and she looks the same. Glowing and vibrant in an otherworldly way. A fitting description for an alien pixie. "Since when do you cook?"

Trish and I are like that. No traditional greetings or hugs. She's like one of those old friends that never changes. "I get by. Come now."

Getting by is a full course breakfast of Belgian waffles, sausage, and intricately shaved fruit. Strong French coffee and mimosas. "So this job," I say, pouring a second cup of coffee, "What makes you think I can do it?"

"You have the eye....and the passion needed to appreciate fine art. So I tell them that you'll come. And here you are, yes?" Trish lights up and offers me a Gitane. It brings back old memories of her sneaking me drinks and smokes. More to piss off my mother than anything else. And I'm tempted, but I hold up my hand and shake my head.

"No thanks."

She shakes her head with a smile. "You Americans are all the same. Going on about your health, and what happens? You get fatter and fatter. So you frown on tobacco and load up on fried food. Tell me, Michel, how much butter was in that pile of waffles you just ate?"

This is as close to a lecture as she gets. I help her clear the plates and she disappears when the last dish is dried. Leaving me to my own devices. And Sydney's diary.

_June 20th_

_Dixon is this close to turning me in. And I can't stand it. The distrust whenever he looks at me. The smile that doesn't reach his eyes. The items he leaves out of his reports. So I've decided to tell him the truth. I know what you're thinking....I can almost see your brow furrowing as you read this, but this has been coming for a long time. He's my partner and I can't keep playing these games._

_And maybe it's selfish, but I can't live this way anymore. And whether you approve or not, it's my choice to make. You're not my handler. As for Lambert.....I can't trust him with this. So I'll tell Dixon on Monday._

This was the Monday of the week when it all came undone. Lambert and his muscle car. Me and my spy camera. Pulling files. Snapping photos. Getting tranked. Syd slipping me a mickey. All the reasons I am here today.

_June 26th_

_So I chickened out. Are you surprised? Maybe not. Sanity returned in the nick of time. At the eleventh hour, I heard that all our Rambaldi artifacts were missing. And I have to act surprised. Because I know who did this. _

_They say that the artifacts are possibly stolen. Definitely misplaced. And all of us are under suspicion. Dixon hasn't said a word about it, but you think he would. Because he has good reason to distrust me. Look what I did in Taipei. Some spy I am, giving in to sentiment. There's no place for emotions in this business. It tears you from the inside out._

_I should know. Harboring these feelings is dangerous. Dreaming of the life that was stolen from me. The life I can never have. With you or anyone else._

Something drips on my hand and I realize my eyes are leaking again. Staining the page. Making the words run together. I finish my coffee and tuck the journal in my knapsack with my art supplies.

Ten steps to the front door and the inviting summer air. Soft and rain-washed. Cerulean sky unmarred by clouds. The perfect day to meander and dream. I stick a note to the front door and my feet take me down the sidewalk and out to the street and miles go by without notice.

Terrain changes and I find myself at the Reflecting Pool. The slim tower of the Washington Monument rises like a giant fuck you to the world. Tourists throng its edges, but I find a quieter space near the trees. And that's where I set myself down, an unsuspecting player in the final act of my adventure.

*****

_June 27th_

_When my father came to me, he said you needed my help. And of course I came, because I figured you'd do the same for me. But maybe not. After all, you tried turning away in Taipei and Dad wouldn't let you._

Sydney is the better person, because if I were in her shoes, I wouldn't have helped out.

_I know he forced you. Dad is good at persuading people._

Do I sense a joke in the middle of all this angst?

_In any case, I never hesitated, because I am completely responsible for how things have turned out._

No, not completely responsible.

_It was great to see you again. You look different. Relaxed. I've never seen you like that before. And seeing that video....well Dad said he gave it to you, but it was still a shock to see my face on the screen._

_I know you didn't want me along. You try to turn your back on me, but it's not in your nature to shun people. Try as you might, it's not what you're about. Maybe I've always known that at some level and have taken advantage of you. No longer. And I'm sorry if I've done that._

_But us. Together. We're good. We fight like cats and dogs, but under the sarcasm is something I can't define. And I think....I hope you feel it too._

That time in the car. So close to moving forward. Interrupted by her mother's arrival. Not meant to be. As for feelings, I can't deny those.

_Sending this journal is selfish, but you aren't speaking to me. And I know of no other way to get through to you....to tell you what transpired.....and to let you know what you mean to me._

I draw in a shaky breath and watch the parade of life passing me by. Two grandparents chasing after their grandchild. Young couples entwined in the first blush of love. Tourists snapping pictures. And a lone woman with a baby carriage. She stops to face the monument and I decide to sketch her. 

Bold strokes of charcoal that gradually form into something coherent. And disturbingly familiar. I examine my work and wonder what is tickling my senses. When I look up, my subject is gone and I decide to return to the journal.

_It happened in the blink of an eye. One minute we were spying on them and the next....I saw Sark aim his gun. Silenced. You falling. I thought you were dead, and I reacted. He never saw me coming and one shot killed him. Then I saw the dart.....and I saw her. Racing across the parking lot. Yelling in Russian._

_Edward. You killed my son._

_And then our backup arrived. Weiss and my Dad. Davenport. Even Devlin. And she stopped cold and looked me in the eye._

_You will pay for this. I will hunt you down._

_And she got away by dashing into the trees. We rounded up the rest of them._

_And I found out....Lambert was Sark's father._

_I had a brother. And now I've killed him. Another person dead because of me. And I was determined that you wouldn't meet that fate._

The journal drops from my hands and I see that I've ruined my sketch. But the subject has returned. I see her on the other side of the water. Staring directly at me....I refocus my eyes and see that's she attending to her baby, not looking at me. Paranoia will do that to you.

_So they told me to drug you when you woke up. Because she and her forces attacked several of our safe houses and they were afraid that you might....go berserk. Or as Dad put it, act like a berserker. But she's too valuable to them and they couldn't let you compromise our operation, so that's why I did what I did. And you can hate me, but at least you know the reason. We moved you from Dad's apartment because she showed up. We almost didn't get out of that one, but we made it across town to a little known hideout. And she never found us. But then you walked out, and you wouldn't let me talk. So now you know what happened._

I could never hate you, Sydney. But what I can't do is escape you. Even here, 3000 miles away, sitting on the bank of the Reflecting Pool, sun beating down on my head. Your journal at my feet.

I'm not sure what to call the emotion that percolates beneath the surface tension whenever our worlds collide. It's "not-quite love". Is that valid? They say there's a thin line between love and hate, but I've never been remotely close to hating her, so what do I call it? How do I categorize it?

And you can tell how lucid I am by this constant monologue going on in my head. I'm surprised it's not accompanied by killer effects and a supporting cast of characters. The only seat in the house is filled by me. An audience of one.

So where was I? Oh yeah, the last entry. How could anything top that last one? A brother, killed by her own hand. And her mother on the war path. Drugging me. To protect me or to protect her mother? I understand why they did what they did, but I'm on the outside now, and from where I'm standing, it feels pretty personal.

******

_July 25th_

_It's been almost a month since he died. I know how this will sound, but sometimes I think I see him. Lurking at the fringes of my peripheral vision. Mocking me. But the mind can play tricks....and mine's been working overtime lately. They've put a watch on me. You know, in case she shows up. _

_I know she's out there. Watching me and waiting for her chance. But you have to wonder, why does she want to kill her own daughter? I mean, beyond the usual SD-6 connection. Yeah, I killed my brother. Her son. But she wants to kill me. Her daughter. So what the fuck? What makes him so special? And then I got this letter:_

**Dear Sydney,**

**I expect you are wondering why I've vowed to avenge my son's death. I don't expect you to understand. You were doing your job and had no way of knowing his connection to you. And I want to excuse you, but I cannot find it in my heart to forgive you.**

**You see, Edward was everything to me. The center of my universe. My world turned on his every desire, and he loved me back. Unconditionally. No judgments about my past actions. Seeing me for who I really am. My empty life was suddenly filled with light and happiness when he came along so unexpectedly.**

**You must wonder what is wrong with me. How can a mother want to kill her own daughter? There is something fundamentally wrong with that notion, but then, I am not a typical woman. I was bred for this life, hand-raised by two KGB agents for the specific purpose of infiltrating the US. With no other thought than becoming what they wanted me to be. A model citizen with perfect credentials. The perfect actress, fully trained to complete her mission.**

**When I met your father, he was convenient. And connected to the highest levels of intelligence. And perfect for my purposes. You weren't supposed to happen. I took every precaution to prevent your conception, but when I found myself pregnant, I couldn't bring myself to abort you. I went against my controller's wishes and had you. In that, I made a mistake. Because you deserved better than the mother you got. I tried so hard not to love you and mostly succeeded. An unfortunate error on an otherwise flawless record.**

**So you see, I cannot let this go unpunished. The one person who has meant the most to me is gone. Because of you. **

**Oh, there is one more thing. Peter Lambert had to die. The father of my child. A man I never loved. A man who was mostly in love with himself. Vain and arrogant to be sure, but up until recently, a significant asset in our organization. Until he bought that damned car. We had warned him repeatedly that he must lie low and not call attention to himself. And he mostly listened....but there was the Bel Air mansion and the expensive vacations and the last straw was the car. Hard on the heels of a major op. I could not tolerate this any further, so I took appropriate action. As I will do against you when the time comes.**

**You are so very careful, but your heart will betray you. Be warned. I am watching and when you least expect it, I will strike.**

**Irina Derevko**

_I haven't mentioned this to anyone except Dad. Because what can they do? Tap my phone? Monitor my mail? Chain me to this job forever?_

God, she sounded just like me. 

_Not the way I want to live._

I'm with you there, Syd.

_Will...well, I know he's a sore subject, but he loves me. And he knows part of the truth. And you'd think I'd be grateful that someone other than you knows about me. You'd think I'd be happy to move on. To let Danny go. To let you go. But I can't. _

Forever bound by emotional chains?

_Not the way I want to love._

_So I've decided. I'm coming for you, Michael. Wherever you are is where I want to be. Damn the consequences. _

And like I'm waking from a dream, I look up and see her. Ten yards away. Solid and well-formed. Skipping stones off the surface of the water with the breeze lifting her hair off her neck. A small smile on her face as she looks over her shoulder. Meeting my eyes. Waiting for me.

******

AN: Lyric fragments in this section are derived from I'll Stand by You by Pretenders

_Let me see you through_

_'Cause I've seen the dark side too_

"You draw?" Syd spots my sketch pad and lifts it reverently. "This is really....wow, I had no idea.....who is this supposed to be?"

I'm a bit flustered by her flattery and I'm sure my ears are turning red. "Umm...there was this woman.....she's gone now."

She's impossibly close to me. Sensory overload. All I can smell is her perfume and the smell of her shampoo. And the light in her eyes....like the sun breaking through the clouds of a rain-washed day.

_The well-trained agent melts into a pile of goo._

"She looks familiar." Her fingers are tracing the smudged lines of my drawing.....softening the sharpened angles of that damned profile....and that's when it hits me.

"Oh, God...." No, it can't be. What I am thinking can't be true. But it comes back to me...the confident stride....the dark hair brushing her shoulders.....the same way she looked at Griffith Park....the same way she looked today....prowling about with her fake baby carriage.

**Be warned. I am watching and when you least expect it, I will strike.**

"What is it?" Sydney touches my arm and I look beyond her to the other side. Searching in vain. She's vanished....taken up position somewhere. Angling for a shot.

_When the night falls on you_

_You don't know what to do_

"That woman....I think it's your mother." Hair sticking up in spikes as I crash my hands into its unruly mass. Her eyes go wide and her mouth opens. Then closes as she contemplates my words.

"Are you sure...because..." Then she grabs the sketch and looks at it more closely. "Oh, God, you're right."

_Nothing you confess_

_Could make me love you less_

"We have to take cover." When she hesitates, I grab her arm. "_Now_."

We start walking quickly and join a group of tourists on their way to the Washington Monument. Syd's shoulders are set in a rigid line and the tension hisses out of her. "I should never have come. She's after me, and now you're a target too."

The crowd breaks off and we head past the entrance. Race walking toward the black wall where nearly 60,000 names are inscribed. I call out, "Maybe. Doesn't matter. You're here.... and I'm glad you came."

She slows down and I match her pace. Fluidic motion as she turns so gracefully, flipping her hair with one hand. Nervous habits die hard. Long tapered fingers find mine and I squeeze her hand. 

_When you're standing at the crossroads_

_And don't know which path to choose_

_Let me come along_

_'Cause even if you're wrong_

_I'll stand by you_

"Really?" A vivid contrast of uncertainty and bold assertiveness. Physically strong but emotionally frail. Part of me wants to help her. Desperately. But the part that nearly drowned in Taipei is flailing for its life. Screaming for retreat. 

The moment is at hand. I have to choose. Her way or the highway. Because if I choose love, her needs will swallow mine. Immolating any sense of self I have left. "Why did you come, Syd?"

Her grip tightens and she jerks my hand to the left. A wide expanse of grass and a lone woman in black. "This way."

We start running at top speed with the war memorial to our right. Another throng of tourists at the Lincoln Memorial as they descend from a bus. We push our way through them and ignore the cries of outrage and muttered swears from an old codger with a cane that hits my shoulder as I pass. I ignore the pain as we tear up the steps and encounter another group.

My cell phone chirps away in my pocket. Nothing that can't wait. "So why did you come?" I ask quietly as we scout the area and see another exit. 

She pulls me to the side of Lincoln's statue and her fingers are everywhere. Tangling in my hair. Caressing the sides of my face. Soft like the touch of a flower petal. "I did it for love."

Hot washes of emotion are stopped by the barrier in my throat. Growing and filling with the outpouring of angst that I've dammed inside me.

_Take me in, into your darkest hour_

_And I'll never desert you_

_I'll stand by you_

How can I stand against love? When it matches what I've always felt and forever denied. My mouth opens, ready to say the right words, and she snatches my breath from me. Kissing me in a way that no one's ever touched me. Iron and fire as she presses her suit, tracing her way along my lips, opening them against the pressure of her delectable mouth. I finally relent and open myself to her. Heart and soul pouring into her waiting vessel. Telling her what she's always known at some level. That one perfect moment when we connect. I break off the kiss and draw in lungfuls of air that quickly rush out when I spot Irina. At the back of the crowd. Hands concealed by her coat. "Back there."

"We can't get past her," Sydney whispers as we start walking slowly. Her hand in mine. Maybe for the last time.

"We have to try." I spot a gap in the crowd. "Now."

Neither of us have a chance. I know it and she knows it. Neither of us are armed and we have no jurisdiction in this city. But we can't stand there like sitting ducks, so we take off at a hard run. Our paces perfectly matched until my foot catches on the top step. It throws her off balance and we both smash down on the concrete. Stunned for the instant that it takes her to catch us. I jump up and hear the muffled bark of a silencer at close range. A bullet slams into my chest and I spin around from the impact. Hitting my head against the steps. Biting down hard on my tongue as the last remnants of my dream sear themselves into my brain. 

The gun coughs again and Syd collapses on top of me. Eyes wide with pain and shock. Mouth moving as she tries to speak. "I love you too, Syd." Her tired smile as the life drains out of her and she dies in my arms. The stir of wind on my cheek as someone rushes past me. And I lie there helpless, forever bound by the woman I can never have.


	12. Foggy Notions

Conséquence-Alias, PG13-Vaughn 

Peregrine (Elizabeth Klisiewicz)

Alias is owned by ABC, Touchstone and is the creation of JJ Abrams and Bad Robot Productions.

Chapter Twelve: Foggy Notions 

_Her blood on my hands._

_She died silently._

_She loved me._

I was too busy escaping to analyze how I really felt. Until the end. When it's too late.

_I will always love her._

At some level, I am aware of the people swarming around us. The buzz of lurid death. Tabloids rubbing their hands with glee. And the coppery smell of her blood on my hands.

A siren pierces through the wall that I've erected and I blink dumbly at two policemen. Mouths gapping open. Catching flies. Asking questions. Like a movie without sound. They remove her from my lifeless hands and take her away from me. Two burly EMTs approach and I am quickly transported to a nearby ambulance and rushed off to the hospital. Blessed unconsciousness finally claims me and I slip into oblivion.

*****

Quiet voices in the background. The beep of monitors. The distant clatter of trays being collected from rooms. I crack my eyes open and see a surround of gray and blue. IV needles attached to me. Chaining me to the bed. Someone slumped in a chair. I try focusing and see that it's Weiss. The last person I expect to see here.

I open my mouth and all that comes out is a desiccated grunt. "Water...."

Eric jumps to his feet and pours some water from a nearby pitcher. When I struggle to sit up, he bolsters me with his arm and raises the head of the bed. "It's not drugged," he says with a smile, holding the glass to my lips as I drink.

My tongue is swollen in my mouth and my chest is on fire. "How long?" I slur.

"Two days and a twelve hour operation." No wonder I feel like shit.

"Jack?" This would kill him if it didn't kill me first.

"He came right away, but he's over at Langley right now." Cleaning up the mess that we made.

"T-Trish," I stammer, trying to remember something that escapes me.

"With your mother at the townhouse," Eric says with a grimace. 

I share his pain. Marie and Trish are the ultimate odd couple and for them to be in the same city....never mind the same house.....get ready for World War III to start. "Tell me....operation." I am finding it hard to draw enough breath to speak.

"The bullet pierced your lung and it collapsed. Luckily they got to you in time..." Weiss explains with a tremor in his voice. "I'm sorry about Syd."

I close my eyes and want to erase everything. My life and the way it collided with hers. And the death I could have prevented.....or maybe not. My cell phone is on the night stand and I open my hand for it. Weiss gives it to me and I turn it on. The message light is flashing. I fumble through the codes and retrieve my message.

It's Trish. Raving in flurried French that I have trouble following. Then my brain connects the dots and forms a horrifying picture.

_The girl came here to see you. I sent her downtown. But then I see this woman....a gun.....much blood...two shots fired.....you are both in danger, Michel. Get out of there now.....while you still can._

The dam bursts and tears start streaming down my face.

_The phone ringing. Nothing that can't wait._

Too many chances blown. The split second hesitation in Taipei when I could have finished her off. The dream that came back to haunt me. My aunt's phone call. And the storm warnings in my head that told me to run. 

I could have stopped this. I may not pulled the trigger, but I am responsible for her death.

******

Los Angeles  
One week later

I am still very weak but insisted on coming home. The least I can do is respect her memory and honor her properly. The church is crowded with friends and family. They don't know me from a hole in the wall, but I recognize some of them. Marshall. Dixon. Arvin Sloane and his wife Emily. Jack and his parents. Will and Francie. 

Weiss and I sit in the back and plan on slipping out before the service ends. I'm sure we can make up something, but I'm not in the mood for the intrusive questions that people often ask at these functions. As it is, I can barely talk without wincing in pain.

The speakers drone on and I start to nod off, spared only by Eric digging his elbow in me and pointing toward the exit. Time to go. Next stop, Evergreen Cemetery, the oldest existing cemetery in LA. 

I lean back against the seat leather and close my eyes, enjoying the silent whisper of the air-conditioning on my face. "You don't have to do this," Eric says softly.

Interment is often the hardest part. When you're at the funeral, you can at least pretend that it's fake and the person inside is only sleeping. But when they start to lower the casket, it becomes all too real. "Yeah, I do."

We take up position and wait for the entourage of cars waving their white flags. All too soon, they drive slowly through the gates and we join the end of the line. When we come to a stop, we're on a hill overlooking the rest of the cemetery. The Bristow family plot. One tiny stone for Syd, engraved with a poem by Emily Dickinson. A fitting tribute to a woman who wanted to be a teacher and ended up as a spy. Just like her mother.

_Because I could not stop for Death,_  
_He kindly stopped for me;_  
_The carriage held but just ourselves_  
_And Immortality._

I think it was one of her favorites. It was written on the back of one of her dead drops and underlined a dozen times. We never discussed it, but it speaks volumes about the person she was. Living life on the edge. Never knowing when her number was up. That memory pierces me like an arrow and I fight to contain myself.

As the priest commends her spirit to the ground, I see Emily Sloane dabbing at her eyes, thinking that it should have been her instead of Sydney in that grave plot. Useless speculation, but probably true. I wish I could approach her, tell her who I am and how I got to know Sydney. The same way I'd like to tell Dixon. And Marshall. They all deserve to know the truth. Who will carry the torch now that she's gone from us?

_All that could have been. All that will never be._

Clods of dirt hit the wood. Filling the space, but never filling the hole left in my heart. Sickened by the sound, I start running away from the grave. Tears blinding me as I dart here and there. The sound of someone running after me. Weiss catches me before I fall into an open pit and we sway there for a moment before regaining our balance.

"T-thanks." I rub my eyes furiously. "Get me out of here."

"Sure." He offers his arm but I shake my head.

"I don't need your help." My little exercise has completely depleted my energy reserves and I start staggering like an old man. Proud and stubborn, refusing to let him assist me. We reach the car and I sag against the frame. 

"I can see that," Weiss muses dryly. He unlocks the car and I'm about to get in when Jack Bristow catches up with us.

"I need to speak with you." Not asking permission. Demanding an audience. So what else is new?

The last person I want to see. "Did Barnett send you?" I rasp, coughing from my exertion.

"No." He looks at Eric. "If you don't mind, I only need a minute." Dismissing him with a figurative flick of his fingers. I guess the word 'please' is expunged from his vocabulary.

"What do you want?" Might as well get this over with.

"They've set up a task force. To find Derevko and take down her organization," Jack says, not mincing any words. Carefully constructed, he's erected a wall that almost no one can penetrate. Impermeable. But I hear the faintest of tremors in his voice, like the precursor to a major quake. And I know that he grieves, this man who has lost everything.

"So?" It's none of my concern. When I get back to the office on Monday, I'll take the final steps to cut the cord.

"I'm in charge....and I've asked them to put you back on the case." He has this much trust in me? Hell, I got his daughter killed.

"Why?" Another cough wracks my frame for a moment and I wonder if I'm hallucinating, because for one second, I swear I see sympathy in his eyes.

"Because we both need closure, Mr. Vaughn."

He makes it sound so simple. Wave a magic wand and we catch the bitch. Abracadabra. Bad feelings all gone. "I don't....I have no intention of returning to the Agency."

"And you think that will help?" It's an honest question, and I know he's not mocking me.

"Maybe. I don't know. All I know is....I can't do this anymore."

Jack considers my words and lays out his final offer. "I need an answer by Monday."

I watch him walk away and that's when I see her. Standing in the shade of a large pine tree. Waving her hand to get our attention. A silent movie starring Sydney. The drugs must be getting to me. I blink my eyes and all I see is his retreating back and the cluster of mourners at the base of the hill. Weiss returns and I say, "Let's get the hell out of here."

******  


Trish is sitting on my stoop when I get home. Smoking like a chimney and ignoring the leers of my obnoxious neighbor as he mows the lawn. She stands up as I shamble up the walk. "Ah, here you are."

"What are you doing here?" Trish hasn't been on the West Coast in a decade. The only time we see her is at weddings and..._funerals_. 

"Nice to see you too." I push past her and stick the key in the lock. "Can I come in?"

"If you insist." My pain medication is wearing off and the last thing I want is company. "Does my mom know you're here?"

She says something nasty under her breath and pretends to spit in her hand. "You have a problem."

That's the understatement of the year. "Did my shrink call you or is there some other reason you're here?"

"You have a guest." Trish walks around the perimeter of the room and stares off into space. Her eyes seem to follow something and she points to my chair by the fireplace. "Can't you see her?" she asks softly.

A guest. I rub the bridge of my nose and sigh, "You know....I'm really tired...."

"You saw her .....didn't you?" Trish starts fiddling with my digital camera and I'm surprised when she picks it up and starts aiming it. She moves closer to the chair and cries, "Ha, there she is. See for yourself."

I look at the LCD screen and see nothing but the chair and a blue sphere. "What the hell?"

"It's called an orb." She speaks with the knowledge of years and I start to shiver. "I have seen this many times...spirits often manifest themselves that way."

"It doesn't prove anything." But I am starting to doubt that statement. Her journal is on the table by the chair where the orb was floating. Her words scored into its pages, forever etched by the anguish that poured into her confession. My only link to her. The same link I had to my father.

Trish takes my hand and directs me to the couch. "Maybe you are right.....but I think we both know the truth. You are keeping her here."

These last few months have been pure hell. Wanting to be done with this business....and this happens. I wanted to be free of her, but never like this. And now I can't let her go. "So what do I do?"

"Destroy the journal." I raise my hand in protest and she continues, "It is the only way."

"You make it sound so simple."

"It is never simple....and it's only the first step. You have to free her....from your heart and mind."

Those words cut me to the marrow and I sink into the cushions. "Don't ask me to do that. I can't....I'm not ready."

"It is the only way...." Trish fumbles for words. "She is your prisoner. You must let her go."

I shake my head and feel the tears coursing down my face. A river of despair. Sinking me to its depths. Pulling me down into a fetal ball. "Go away," I mutter, and only when I hear the door click closed do I unleash the tidal forces that rage within me.

******  


The golden tendrils of early morning, lighting its path through the window, dust motes dancing along its length. My dog snoring at my feet. The silence of a lonely house. I get to my feet and stretch, feeling the burn along my ribcage, wondering if I'll ever feel normal again. The way my breath hitches when I sigh, catching me up short. 

_No hockey for a few months._

Easy for a fat, balding doctor who never sees the sun. But not easy for me, who has so little to escape to. 

I pad over to the back window and look at the shreds of ground fog. Whorls of mist that form into Lovecraftian monsters. Yellowed by the burgeoning sunlight. I see a figure in the distance and squint my eyes. It moves closer and slowly defines itself as a woman. Moving so gracefully and carefully up the hillside. Closer she comes. Stops at the summit. Looks up at the window. 

_Sydney. _

She smiles sadly and starts to fade like a sunset. I hear a flapping sound and look behind me. The journal is on the floor. Opened to an entry. Not on the table where it was last night. I look back outside and she is gone. I retrieve the journal and settle into the chair.

_August 3._

Today's date.

_You have to let go._

The same writing as the rest of the journal. Red pen ....looking far too much like blood. I hug the journal to me and draw my legs up to my chest. My answering machine is flashing and I hit the message button. 

Trish's voice comes on the line. 

_Michel, I'm sorry about last night. I should not have surprised you like that. Call me when you feel up to it. We need to talk about this._

She rattles off a number to the hotel where she is staying and I jot it down before erasing the message.

My stomach starts growling and I realize that it's been more than a day since I ate anything. I pick up the phone and dial Eric's number.

"Have you eaten yet?" I say when he picks up.

"Nope. Want to meet at the usual spot?"

"Sure. Give me an hour and I'll meet you there."

A shower makes a new man out of me and I actually find some clean clothes among the heap on the floor. Meaning they're not standing up on their own. I feed the dog and sort through the mail that's piled up on the counter. Bills. Catalogs. Solicitations from charity. Sports Illustrated. I push the bills aside and shove the magazine under my arm. Time to head out.

*****  


Weiss is about ten minutes late. I'm sitting at a table with my feet up, sipping on some coffee and reading the stats on the Lakers. "Hey," I say, pushing the coffee pot at him. 

"How's it going?" he asks, pouring a generous dollop of cream in the mug with his coffee.

"It's going." I hold up my finger and the waitress brings more coffee. 

"So this task force. You going for it?" Eric asks between sips.

"Dunno. It's probably a bad idea. You know....considering...." That's putting it mildly.

"Jack twisted some arms to get you reinstated."

I chuckle. "He's good at that."

"Just so you know, I'm part of it. Along with some folks from Langley." He takes out his yo-yo and fiddles with the string while I decide what to order. Watching my face for a reaction. Disappointed that I'm not biting.

Mild on the outside, seething on the inside. At the possibilities....access to information.....access to guns.....thinking of anything but her and the way her face looked when she died. 

_I didn't see them bury her. It didn't really happen. It's somebody else's bad dream._

Denial is the first stage of grief. Everyone knows this. Everyone experiences it. But nothing prepares you for the way it shuts you down. The numbness I felt in Taipei....it's nothing compared to this. Tired. Disconnected. Cold that starts on the inside and encases you in a cocoon of ice. I start to shiver and look up at the laboring air-conditioner over our heads. "Are you cold?"

Weiss shakes his head and continues looking at the menu. "Will you at least think about it?"

I happen to glance down and see spilled sugar start to swirl around. Forming into words.

_I can't let you do this._

My spoon clatters to the ground and I hope he doesn't see the way my hands are shaking. Not from the cold this time. "Sure. Umm, shall we order?"

We never find our way back to that particular subject and after an hour passes, I am on my own again. Alone. With all those nasty thoughts kicking around....waiting for the catalyst to set them free.

*****  


I spend the rest of the weekend outside. Avoiding my house and my crowded thoughts. Evading Trish's phone calls. Away from it all.

Wide open spaces. Panting dog. Nikes tripping on rocks as we hike. Ignoring my doctor's orders. Feeling the burn. Popping pain pills like candy.

A three day supply of Oxycontin. Heaven in a capsule. Highly addictive. And exactly what I need right now. 

It's Sunday afternoon and I'm sitting on a rock outside my back door. Taking in the sun. Flipping pages on the 900+ pages of The Company. Non-fiction in the form of a novel. Engrossing enough to keep the bad thoughts and ghosties at bay.

I'm a third of the way through the book when my cell phone rings. "Yeah?"

"_Michael_." My adrenalin rushes and the book falls from my hands. It's Syd. Crystal clear. 

_Ghosts don't exist. It can't be her._

"Who is this?" I croak in a tone that puts Kermit to shame. 

The sound of traffic in the background. A sigh that whispers in my heart. "_Michael_...."

Call waiting beeps in the background and I'm relieved to hear Trish's voice. "You have to come over," I blurt out, totally freaked by what is happening. "I'm ready to.....well, you know."

"Don't be afraid. It will work out OK." I wish I was sure about that.

"Come now. Please," I say, wondering if the other line is still open. 

I switch back to the other call and there's nothing but loud static. With a heavy heart, I turn off the phone and head into the house. Thinking that I lose everyone I love. Sharon. Syd. It's time to let go and move on.

******  


Trish arrives and plops on my couch. Cigarette in hand. Inspecting me. Shaking her head a few times.

"Where are the props?" I ask, looking for the smoke and mirrors that I associate with her vocation.

She looks insulted. "Bah....you know nothing."

"But aren't you supposed to bathe in special ingredients....and wave some kind of wand...."

"A smudge stick," she corrects with a glint of amusement. 

"Right. And what about all the candles? Different colors....and salt?" Wasn't that what exorcism was all about?

"Next thing you will ask is where is Linda Blair....what have you been reading, Michel?" She pushes back a lock of red hair and I see that she hasn't aged a day. Like a younger version of Goldie Hawn. With the great body and the attitude to match. No wonder my mother hates her. 

"I read it on the Net." Between bidding on items at E-Bay and pulling up scores for my favorite teams.

She rolls her eyes and waves her free hand. "Let's get this straight. There are no floating trumpets....no glowing hands....and no Ouija boards. I am for real."

We both remember that day when she channeled Sharon and I ran from the room in terror. Am I ready to see Sydney's face floating over hers? "I know." My throat works and I turn my face aside.

"She is trying to communicate, yes?" It is not really a question.

"I think....yeah." Or maybe I am losing my mind. Or it could be the second stage of grief. Yearning for the lost object or person. Seeing them in every leaf and odd turn of conversation that reminds you of them. But that doesn't explain the writing....or the phone call.

"You have seen her?" Trish asks.

"Twice. Once at the cemetery.....and here at the house." My voice seems to come from far away. Someone else's words. The memories of a crazy person.

"What else?" I realize that Trish is interviewing me. Collecting the facts before she proceeds.

"Writing. In her journal and at the restaurant." The swirl of sugar....and the biting cold. "And a phone call."

"Have you felt cold patches?"

"Yes. Once."

"And this writing....what did she tell you?"

I wrap my arms around my frame and feel cold all over again. "She said...I have to let go....and she won't let me do this. Whatever 'this' is....I don't know.....that's why I called you."

Trish gets a funny expression on her face and I see her staring at the ash tray. Her cigarette has been rubbed out, but not by her. "Strong-willed and stubborn...she hates the smoke....so I will stop. I have seen your Sydney in my dreams. I have seen.....the two of you together on her last day. And her mother...." She shakes her head and actually crosses herself.

"What about her?" I can't help the edge in my voice, but Trish seems to get it.

Trish sighs heavily and gets to her feet. "She is the key. You see.....I thought you were keeping her here. But it's more complicated than that.....I see these images and I think they are the future......there is an accident...and lots of water....and the three of you.....all involved in this...this woman....Irene..." She fishes for a name and I help her out.

"Irina Derevko." A black wall of hatred threatens to swallow me alive.

She mutters an epithet. "I can feel her from a great distance. And what I feel is evil. A hole where her heart used to be....and no soul. She is what we call.....dead man walking. Do you understand?"

More than she imagined. "So what does it all mean?"

She sits on the floor and urges me to join her. "Take my hand."

"Is this a séance?" I ask flippantly.

"I call it a..." She searches for a word in French and shakes her head. "By combining forces, we can see why she is still here."

"All right."

At first I feel nothing except the sweat from her hand and the way she shakes slightly. Eyes closed. Concentrating. Murmuring under her breath. An incantation.....a prayer in French. Then her fingers dig into my palm and her breath rushes out of her. When the words start, I am relieved to hear Trish's voice. "She is.....very sad that you never had a chance to be together, but she is more concerned about your welfare. What you will do....she wants you to let go of the anger and the hatred. She wants you to move on with your life. But that's not why she's here. Sydney has.....an _agenda_...."

Trish suddenly lets go and I see blood gushing from her nose. I hand her a box of tissues and ask, "What happened?"

She smiles and finishes cleaning up her face. "She is blocking me.....as I said, she has a will of iron and decided she was done talking."

"Why the blood?" 

"The blood happens sometimes with a trance....it is nothing. As for your friend, I asked if she wished to speak through me and she refused....said she is quite capable of speaking for herself. Not very cooperative." 

I almost laugh but check myself in time. That sounds exactly like Sydney. And the fact that I am sitting here discussing a dead person….we are both slightly out of our minds. Trish has the excuse of her gifts, but I can only blame my drug-addled mind. "So what am I supposed to do in the meantime? Should I burn the journal?"

She shakes her head and gets to her feet. "No, it won't help. As for the rest….when the moment is at hand, you will know what to do. Good luck."

*******  


Monday morning  
Staring at the ceiling

I don't where I stand at the Agency. There are questions they'll want answered. And will I tell them what they want to hear? 

Where has it all gone wrong? Did it start on the day when they assigned me to her case? Or the day on the pier when my feelings changed? Or was it the day I told her that I wanted more? Or maybe, just maybe, it went back to the little boy who cried for his father every night for a year. Were the seeds of revenge unknowingly planted when I found out he was murdered? Bad enough that I suspected Jack Bristow. Even worse when I found out that Sydney's mother pulled the trigger. Worst of all when I heard she was alive. Because now I had a target. 

I did not knowingly toss that earpiece aside or follow my darkest instincts in Taipei. It was an involuntary act.....like breathing. I don't need to be psychic to know what Sydney wants. Justice. She believed in a system that no longer works. One where the good guys catch the bad guys. But I am not so naïve. Good guys don't just finish last, they often wind up dead. 

_I would rather be gray than red, white, and blue._

Violence is a language that everyone understands. Bullets are the true system of barter, not words. Irina Derevko lives by this logic. If I have my way, she'll die by it too.

****  


I kick aside some laundry and force my closet door open. A neat line of suits and ties and several pairs of expensive shoes. Sharing space with a pile of unwashed jeans and T-shirts. Should I dress for the dungeon or the firing squad on the executive level? 

Ratty clothes and shoes are no more than they deserve, but I better play it safe. With a gray suit (befitting my new status) under my arm, I trip down the hall to my bathroom. The suit ends up on the back of the toilet as I fish around for my pain pills. They're not on the sink where I left them. Or in the medicine cabinet. Or anywhere else I might leave them. As I'm leaning over the sink, I look down and jump back at the mass of red that festoons the basin. Closer inspection reveals that the gelatinous mess is what's left of my toothpaste.

_Lose the pills._

Now I'm pissed. At someone who is dead. Try telling that to the shrink. I can imagine the convo with Barnett.

**"You must be carrying around this terrible rage toward Sydney's mother."**

_"Actually, it's her daughter that pisses me off."_

**"What....but she's....?"**

_"Dead? Yeah, that's what I thought."_

My daydream fades and I take a deep breath. Trying to ignore the pain is like trying to ignore the jerk that cuts you off. It insists on being noticed. Pulling as I go through the motions and take my shower. Reminding me when I bend over to pat my dog. Staring me in the face when I see the apology dripping from the misty mirror.

_I'm trying to help you._

"I don't need your help." I throw my hairbrush at the wall and turn my back on the mirror. Really, I don't need this hassle. She. It. Whatever you want to call her is starting to get on my nerves, and that's never a good thing. Trust me on that one. If she can read my mind, then she knows what I'm thinking.

I slam my phone and pager into my briefcase and stalk out of the house. Unbrushed and unshaven. Let's see what they make of that. I'll down the nastiest cup of coffee and knock them over with my breath. I'll put Robin Sherwood to shame. 

That actually puts a smile on my face as I put my car in gear and back down the driveway. Out into the ozone and congested traffic. Time to face the music.

*****  


**Note**: Vaughn's Jetta was left in Denver during his cross-country trip and there wouldn't have been time to retrieve it. So the car in question is a rental.

*****  


They stop me at the security desk. "You're expected upstairs. Level 6. Devlin's office."

On with the show. When I get there, Jack and Devlin are waiting for me. Hands folded on their respective laps. The way they are looking at me....have I grown horns or something?

"How are you?" This comes from Jack, which surprises the hell out of me. 

"Fine." I take the seat next to him and deliberately slouch, hands behind my head and legs sprawled in front of me. Damned insolent of me. And I can see that it annoys Devlin, but Jack's lips actually twitch for a moment. "So what's the verdict?"

Devlin is taken aback by my question, but he recovers quickly. "Jack wants you on his team. I can think of a million reasons to say no, but he insists that you're the right man for the job."

I look sideways and catch Jack's eye. Inscrutable like he always is. "That's.....I'm flattered, but...."

Jack is swift with his rebuttal. "I'm not here to feather your nest, Mr. Vaughn. This is business, and I think you have the right stuff for this op."

I close my eyes for a moment and rub my forehead hard. Nope, examining my head ain't helping. "All right. I'll do it."

Jack practically jumps to his feet. "The team meets in one hour. Conference Room Twenty. Don't disappoint me, or you're finished here."

Before I can follow him out the door, Devlin stops me. "There are a few things we need to discuss."

"Of course," I reply easily, resuming my politically incorrect posture and watching the flush of red on his already florid face.

"I've read your report, and everything is in order." 

Am I supposed to give a shit? "Glad to hear it," I say through my teeth, favoring him with a smirk.

"I know what she meant to you, Mr. Vaughn. It's a terrible blow whenever we lose such an important asset, but life does go on," he intones as he glances at me through his bifocals.

She's a human being, you fat turd, not a fucking asset. Glad you can balance your budget with one less salary to pay? I literally bite my tongue and almost lose it when the dream comes back to me. Full motion video. Startling color. I blink and finally nod my head in agreement. "I agree." Better than saying I want to choke the living shit out of you.

"However, something about this whole scenario bothers me. You two were highly trained agents with field experience. And you know DC like the back of your hand....so tell me, why did you let Derevko corner you?"

I remember the feel of her lips on mine. The way she tasted and smelled. Indelibly etched for all eternity. The things she said to me. The words she wrote in her journal. What I almost failed to tell her in time. "We ran out of time."

The truth is never simple, and I'm not ready to spill my guts to this man. Or his pet shrink. It's none of their damned business. 

"There were other exits....and public transportation. By my estimate, you had plenty of time to escape," Devlin says with waggling brows.

"You weren't there, so you don't know...." I am suddenly on my feet. "And this conversation is over."

His mouth opens in outrage and that's the last thing I see before slamming the door behind me.

*****  


I drop by Weiss's office and catch him playing Tomb Raider on his laptop. "Working hard or hardly working?" I joke.

He shuts off the monitor and pours me a cup of coffee. "So, did they ream you a new one?"

I stare into the murky depths of my second coffee of the day and shake my head. "Not quite."

"Good. Hey, did you take Jack up on his offer?" The yo-yo comes out to play and I also see that he's taken up bubble gum as a sport. Better chewing than chawing.

"Yeah."

"And Devlin didn't have a problem with that?" Weiss always knows how to cut through the bullshit.

"Actually, he does....but Jack pulled some mojo and got his way." I shrug like it's none of my concern, but I wonder how he gets away with it.

"That guy has some moxie....." Eric shakes his head and looks at a pile of reports. "Look, I better get some work done before the meeting."

I wonder where I'm supposed to hang out for the next forty five minutes. The director's private bathroom? The dungeon? We're short on space, but I hear Haladki's old office is up for grabs. Weiss sees my indecision and realizes my dilemma. "I got your old office back."

"Really? But....thank you, that's great." I'm not sure I believe that, but I do appreciate his gesture.

"See you at 10."

He closes the door behind me and I find myself at loose ends. Alone. With nothing but time on my hands. I walk to the stairs and find my way back to my old digs. My coin is still where I left it. The lamp that Trish gave me is back on the desk. And someone has taken the time to water my plants and return them to the shelf behind the couch. The computer is on and I find that my log-in still works. Once I get on the Net, I decide to return to the paranormal sites where I've learned so much about my resident spook. With a small smile, I start to daydream and let my thoughts drift away on the clouds of my imagination.

*****  


Jack is pointing to a large map when I arrive. Fashionably late. Two minutes by my watch. He looks annoyed, but I'm sure he'll get over it. I see Weiss in the corner and slink to the seat he's saved for me. I look around and don't recognize any of the other players. Except who is that up front? I do a double take when I see Paulie, tapping away at her laptop like a cow chewing her cud. 

"What's she doing here?" I hiss in Eric's ear.

"Feeding intel." So the cow analogy isn't so far off.

"What have I missed?"

"Is there some problem, Mr. Vaughn?" Jack snaps, and I wonder if he has a future as a teacher in a reform school. Something tells me he'd be a natural.

"Not at all," I say lightly, offering up my brightest smile.

He goes on to tell us about two locations where "The Man" has been sighted. "We are sorely lacking in manpower, but I plan on assigning half a dozen agents to the area. Judging from recent activity, they are planning something big and we have to move before they do."

Jack points in my direction. I guess ducking under the table won't work. "Mr. Vaughn, you're with me. We'll coordinate things from this end. Agent Weiss will be going upstate with the group from Langley."

A blonde woman with very large teeth and Lee press on nails takes the stage and starts droning on about surveillance techniques. "Who is that?" I ask under my breath.

"Kim Vanderhof. Station chief in Prague," Weiss mutters as he fidgets with his yo-yo.

Oh crap. I know that name. Her father was among the group of 25 dead agents. "Who else?"

"Agents Harding and Felice." He points in the direction of two sober looking dudes in navy blue suits. 

Two more names from the list. "Volunteers?"

He nods and I finally tune into the conversation. Vanderhof lays out her wares and we all play show and tell while she talks. They're pulling out all the stops. Latest hardware and some of our best agents. I might not know the faces, but I've seen the names a dozen times. Award recipients. Mentored, wined, and dined by the head spooks at Langley. Going places at the speed of light.

"Any questions?" Jack asks quickly. His dark eyes scan the audience and rest on me for a few beats. Like he expects me to cause trouble. On that score, he would be right. I am not about to sit in the office while the others get all the action.

I wait for them to file out before I approach him. "Why are you benching me?"

His hands stop erasing the whiteboard. "You're needed here."

"More like, they ordered you to keep me here." I wait until I have his full attention. "Am I right?"

He sighs and puts the eraser down. "Those were the terms, yes."

"I thought you were in charge of this op," I retort hotly, slicking back my hair with the sweat from my hands, knowing I am treading on dangerous ground.

His jaw clenches and a number of dark emotions flash on his face. "Mr. Vaughn, we all have to answer to a higher power."

"But you're Jack Bristow. You can do anything you want and they let you get away with it." Pent-up resentment comes flying out of nowhere and hits him square in the chest. And something on my face seems to scare him, because he backs away from me.

"I'm not _God_, Mr. Vaughn." He shrugs and sits down at the table, looking older than I've ever seen him. His iron gray hair is thinner than I remember and he's lost a lot of weight. Jack is more than the double agent du jour. He's a husband whose wife betrayed him and a father who's lost his only child. "And if I sometimes take advantage of my position, I only do it to help my family."

"I'm sorry." And I mean it this time. He looks up and his granite features soften so imperceptibly that I almost miss it. Apology accepted.

"So am I. Let's get to work."

******  


Jack holds the phone with one hand and moves stick pins around the map while he talks. And I sit there, playing with my coin and contemplating my navel and thinking that Jack looks a little like Joe Leaphorn* and I could definitely pass for Jim Chee*. The oddest couple in law enforcement. 

What am I doing here?

_Not a damned thing._

They have me caged in so they can keep an eye on me. If they assign me to the basement, I might slip through their fingers. But here, with Jack glowering at me (he's got it down to a science) and a fucking cannon at the ready (Sig Sauer by the look of it), they have me neutralized.

Lunch time comes and goes without a break and I decide I've had enough. He's off on one of his tangents and jumps when I tap his earpiece. "What?" he barks.

"I'm going to lunch," I announce.

"Just give me a minute and I'll join you," he replies, holding up a finger.

I shake my head and start walking out the door. In the space of a heartbeat, he's blocking my path and I swear I see his trigger finger itching to draw his weapon. "Get out of my way." Low, mean, and throbbing with menace. So unlike my usual demeanor that it scares me a little. But it works, because he moves aside.

"Where are you going?" he calls after me.

I stop and look at him. "What are you, my _jailer_?"

"Accountability, Mr. Vaughn. I need to keep track of every team member at all times," he reminds me.

I knew that. "I'll be down at the Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf." About as far as I can get from the office without leaving town. What I really need is a stiff drink, but good coffee will do for now.

******  


***Note**: Jim Chee and Joe Leaphorn are Navajo tribal policemen from Tony Hillerman novels.

*****  
I hide behind the sports section of the LA Times and slurp at my mocha java. Spy guys do not belong here. Only cool Hollywood types with designer tans and million dollar sports cars. They stroll by me and I'm ashamed to admit that I recognize most of them. This is the place to be. I read it in Movieline. Yeah, my copy is buried between Penthouse and Sports Illustrated on my bathroom floor. How superficial is that? But hey, it's an escape. 

So I turn to the crossword puzzle and that's when I see that one of the words is filled in. 47 across. Nine letter word for trees that don't shed their leaves. 

_Evergreen._

Holy fucking shit.

The same careful writing that appears in her journal. How can this be? I just bought the paper....oh....right. I put it down on the table with my pen when I bought my coffee.

This is so not happening to me. I am supposed to be here, sipping coffee and slacking off. Not getting visits from the Not-so-friendly ghost. When I look back at the crossword, the page is completely blank. Definitely losing my marbles.

_Visit the cemetery. See what she wants._

I toss out my trash and stuff the paper in my briefcase. Out the door and back to my car in the twinkling of an eye. Honking my way into the line of traffic and swearing at a few idiots who cut me off. Business as usual in LA. The minutes tick by and I somehow make it to Evergreen in one piece. I drive around a landscaper's cart and park the car under a willow tree. 110 degrees in the shade. My jacket ends up on top of the newspaper and I roll up my sleeves. 

I cut through one of the oldest sections of the cemetery and approach chez Bristow. Three generations buried here. A bright flash of wings draws my attention and I see a stellar jay squawking at me from the branch of a nearby pine tree. I never really noticed birds until I met Sydney (who loves them). I start to approach and the bird flaps away to the next tree. Still scolding me. When I get to the brink of the hill, I look down and can't believe what I see. 

A black Mercedes with tinted windows.

_No, this can't be right. I'm hallucinating. That is not her car. She would never risk coming here. How could she.....she killed her own daughter....._

It's no hallucination and it's happening right in front of me. Irina emerges from the back of the car with an armful of mums in a tasteful urn. Stops and looks around. Not seeing me on the hill. She approaches the grave and places the flowers in front of it. And then she crosses herself and kneels down. This simple action does more to infuriate me than anything else she has done. 

_Fucking bitch. Prepare to meet your Maker._

I reach for my gun and remember that I lost my permit. And my phone's in the car with my pager. So help's not on its way.

_You're on your own, Michael. Here's your chance to do the right thing._

Without looking back, I take off at top speed and ignore the pain in my chest. When I get to the car, I stick my baseball cap on my head and hunker down. A few minutes later, the Mercedes passes and picks up a tail. Keeping some distance between me and the Nazi staff car, I figure they're on their way to LAX. 

I see the message light flashing on my cell phone and know that my dog handler is putting a choke hold on me. Or so he thinks. 

Michael Vaughn has gone rogue for the last time. And I don't give a shit if she takes me down with her. All that matters is that I end this.

******  


I lose the suit coat, shirt, and tie in my car. By the time, I get to the ticket counter, my unshaven mug is hidden behind a fugly pair of sunglasses and my hair is tucked under my baseball cap. T-shirt, dress pants, and fancy shoes. Dragon breath and growling stomach. No food since yesterday. 

The line drags and I see the departure time looming nearer. When I finally get to the head of the class, I buy the very last ticket in coach. A middle seat behind the right wing. OK, I can deal, as long as I'm not sandwiched between smelly gits and screaming kids with sticky hands. 

Ten minutes to boarding. Enough time to grab some food and take a piss. I run into the men's room and nearly knock over Derevko's bodyguard. My feet skid in some water and I slam into the line of sinks. Fucking hell. He barely notices me and I breathe a sigh of relief when he leaves. 

My cell phone is jammed in my back pocket and my pager is somewhere in the Pacific. Maybe it will find Syd's old pager and keep it company. Somehow, that thought depresses me more than anything and I fight to keep down a half gallon of coffee.

When I finally get to my seat, I've managed to wolf down a plastic looking sandwich that tastes like its wrapper. Finger foods for frequent fliers. Or dollhouse toys for giants. I see her in first class. Reading the latest Nelson DeMille novel. Secret Commie police and CIA plants. Irina never sees me. Why isn't she more careful? She's used up more lives than a cat and there she sits. All feline and looking rather amazing for her age. What Sydney might have been.....I gulp down a rancid mixture of grief and rage and manage to pass by without decking her.

I'm flanked by a college student with a headset and an older woman with a Danielle Steel novel. Weird flash from my last flight. Was Irina on that plane? Did she follow me to Washington, anticipating that Sydney would be hot on my heels? 

Every where I turn, I find some other way to blame myself. But I'll do it right this time. She won't be coming up for air.

*****  


My mind is like the Energizer bunny. It never stops thinking. Never stops planning 'what ifs' and possible scenarios. It makes me good at strategizing, but it's subtracting years from my life and adding lines to my forehead. 

I sit 22 rows back, plotting her demise between allergic sniffs from the woman on my left and random drumming from the kid with the tunes. Stale cocktail peanuts caught in my teeth. Crumpled napkins jammed in the seat back with the airline magazine. The buzz from three shots of vodka roiling in my gut. Jazzed from gallons of coffee on an empty stomach. Pissed that she gets to choose who lives or dies. I hope to even the odds on that score.

It's a short hop from LAX to San Francisco but time slows to a crawl as I join the long line. _Disembarking_. A ten dollar word for getting off the plane. Made up by some geek who's memorized the dictionary. Such trivial thoughts consume me as I pass the gate and see her halfway down the concourse.

_She's alone._

If security weren't heightened, I could grab her without anyone noticing. Even so, I am not stupid, and only an idiot would try to take her in such a public place. I know she's armed. Metal detectors are no object for Madame Assassin. One can only assume that she's stuffed to the gills with guns. She waltzes blithely past the security checkpoints with a grin for all the handsome young men serving our country. The joke is definitely on them.

I keep a safe distance and no one looks at me twice as I follow her toward the entrance. So far, so good. No APBs or security alerts on Michael Vaughn or Irina Derevko. I can only assume they don't know she's here. Which is good for me and bad for them. Of course, the right thing to do is calling in and reporting my whereabouts. But when have I ever done the right thing? I follow my heart and it's telling me not to let her out of my sight.

When I get out to the curb, I realize this is going a little too well. None of her people are here and she hasn't been the slightest bit suspicious of me. Until now. She turns and smiles at me and the game is up. I've been made. She approaches two cops and starts talking. Hands emoting as she turns and points straight at me. Then she smirks as the two cops start bearing down on me. I watch as she jumps in a cab that starts to drive away. The police are 50 yards away and closing and I see a yellow taxi gliding to a stop. Two old women start to move toward the cab and I knock them over in my haste. 

"Hey, you. Hold it right there," yells one of the cops and I launch myself into the back seat. The startled driver looks between me and the police, hesitating visibly and starting to reach for the door handle.

"Follow that cab," I yell, pointing at the rapidly disappearing profile of Irina's taxi. He looks at me dumbly and I guess I'm not speaking his language. My wallet comes out and I throw a fifty dollar bill at him. His eyes brighten and the cab is suddenly in motion, moving away at the exact moment the cops catch up with me.

"Where are you headed?" he asks in pleasantly accented English.

"Wherever they're headed."

"This is going to cost you," he cautions, catching my eye in the rear view mirror.

I roll my eyes and sigh. "Don't lose them," I bark, leaning back against the seat and catching my breath as the driver accelerates rapidly and heads toward the city.

******  


We climb Russian Hill and her cab stops in front of one of those impossibly expensive homes. My driver lets me out on the corner and I throw a pile of money at him. Without looking back, I see her disappear into one of those gated courtyards that are so prevalent in this city. When I get to the gate, I see her disappearing down a sidewalk that winds between lush gardens.

Private home. Gobs of money. I'm sure they won't mind if I trespass. So I follow her and see her talking to someone on the street. The man looks familiar and I suddenly realize who I'm looking at. Khasinau. Never picked up on our last raid. Still holding the fort in the city by the bay. He leans forward and kisses her on both cheeks. Hands her the keys to the shining Beamer on the street and walks into the house. Black (of course) with an American flag glued to the back window. Does a sense of humor share space with her assassin's heart?

She looks around and I duck behind some greenery, wondering why this enclave isn't better protected. Do these people think they're invincible? I hold that thought when a pair of hands tries to wrap itself around my throat. One backward thrust of my elbow and my assailant is on the ground. His thick arms wrap around my legs and he almost trips me, but I regain my balance and stomp on him as hard as I can. His watery blue eyes pop open in shock and he passes out.

I hear the BMW's smooth engine purring and see Irina pulling away from the curb. My window of opportunity is rapidly closing and I dash toward the black Corvette parked in the alley. Unlocked. Full tank of gas. No security devices. A yank on some wires, connect the ends, and we have ignition. 

The Beamer is still in sight and I'm guessing she's headed out of town. As I jam down the accelerator I think of Trish. Teaching me how to hot-wire my mother's car and the joyrides we took during those impossibly boring visits from the Moreau clan. 

Michael Vaughn, a not so nice guy in a stolen vehicle. Chasing a murderous bitch across town. I see her signal and get within three cars of her as we head south on Route 1. Passing Golden Gate Park and heading out of the city.

********  


I decide to check my voice mail. Maybe for the last time. Ten new messages, waiting for me. Imagine that. I'm a popular guy on the ten most wanted circuit.

Six messages from Jack. Thinly veiled threats. Get my ass back to the office. Polite and slightly worried at first. Snarling by the end of number six. His ass is on the line and I better not let him down. Sorry, Jack. Already been there and done that.

Two messages from Devlin. Telling me I'm done as an agent. Oh, goody. So what else is new?

One message from Weiss. "Where are you, Mike?"

_We're back to Mike. He knows I hate nicknames. _

"Devlin's on the war path and Jack....you better call in."

_It's too late for that, Eric. I'm already at the point of no return._

The last message is from Trish. Rapid-fire French between drags on her Gitane. "Michael." She never anglicizes my name. _Never_. "Avoid the water.....I have seen something about a slide.....wherever you are...._leave_ the car. Godspeed."

And I've never heard her say anything remotely religious. Until now. I get ready to turn the phone off but it rings. Three little chirps before I answer. "Yes?"

"Now this is interesting. You following me. I must give you credit, Mr. Vaughn." My ears freeze. Irina. _Mocking_ me. Then she laughs and I feel the rage start to build. The slow burn that ramps to a fiery crescendo.

Don't bother asking how she got this number. She is too smart for that and I will only paint myself as even dumber than she thinks me to be. "Credit for what?" 

"For your persistence," she replies with grudging respect. "You have gotten closer than all your agents. They wheel and deal and think they have turned one of mine. They will soon discover their mistake."

"What have you done?" I whisper harshly, wondering how it can get any worse than it already is. 

"Your little cell....soon it will all be gone." Another sardonic chuckle. "And whatever you think you are doing here....."

I interrupt, "I'm here to take you down. You're finished."

"Is that so? Well, my friend, far better men than you have failed.....look at your father...."

She's trying to bait me. I take a deep breath and wait for the pain to subside. "I'm _not_ my father. As you will soon find out."

A short silence while she thinks about my words. "Perhaps I have underestimated you, but no matter. You are here because I've allowed you to get this far."

"Really?" I'm not sure I believe that anyone is that good, but look at her record. Dozens of kills and not a mark on her. Part of it is pure luck, but the rest is talent. 

Her laugh ....so much like Sydney's...so easy to forget how dangerous she is. So easy to cave in....and how well she knows this....knows that my weakness is her daughter....._still_. For Sydney, I would do anything. It's why I followed her to Taipei. It's why I'm here now. In this cat and mouse game with her treacherous mother. "Come now, Mr. Vaughn, did you honestly think you escaped my notice with your pathetic disguise?"

"I thought....y-yes...." Stammering and sweating. Like I always do around women that intimidate me. The way I often acted around Syd.

"I saw you at the cemetery. And we knew that you followed us to LAX. And got on the same flight to San Francisco. And I made sure that you followed me downtown. And that car you are driving....how convenient that it was parked there. Unguarded and unlocked. Don't you find this the slightest bit strange? There is not so much coincidence in this life unless it is planned."

Hell. Am I the hunter or the hunted? "You lured me here."

"Of course. And I knew you would follow.....I know what you want, you see. It's what they all want in the end...." Irina's voice softens and just when I think she's getting sentimental, it hardens. "What lies ahead, Mr. Vaughn? And more importantly, think about the car you are driving and why we let you take it."

She terminates the call and leaves my head buzzing with a million questions. A setup. If I stop the car to check for explosives, I'll lose my one and only chance to capture the prize. 

_What lies ahead....what lies ahead_.....I pound my fist against my head and my eyes open wide as a memory from my childhood comes flooding back.

_Visiting my cool Aunt Trish in San Francisco. Shortly after my father's death. Endless rides in her Firebird. Hanging our feet over the ledge....a wall of rock....a wall of death leading to the water below. Cars whizzing by us at impossibly high speeds._

**This is the Devil's Slide.**

_Why do they call it that?_

**No one survives a fall off these cliffs. Cars go over...never to be seen again. Smashed on the rocks. Burned by the fire. So, it is an appropriate name, don't you think?**

I remember nodding my head, enchanted by my bewitching aunt with all her strange friends and her weird mannerisms.

**So you must remember to stay away from here. Do you understand?**

An adult admonishing a wayward child. But it all seems so clear now. Did she sense something all those years ago that she can't remember now?

What lies ahead is the road to Pacifica. A road that leads to the Devil's Slide. Hugging the cliff. Nothing between you and the water but a railing. People have gone over the side and died here. Trish is still on my mind and her recent warning comes back to me.

_There is an accident...and lots of water....and the three of you.....all involved in this...this woman....Irene_

The three of us. Me, Syd, and Irina.

_She has an agenda._

Indeed. The words on the cross word puzzle. Leading me down the path she wants me to follow. The mother and the daughter. Using me for their own purposes. For different reasons...but using me all the same.

_Yes. This is where it will end._

And then my brain comes screeching to a halt as Irina's words slam home.

_Your little cell....soon it will all be gone...._

Shit. Eric and Paulie. And the rest of them. If I don't warn them, they won't walk away from this. And Irina will win. Again. 

******  


I hit speed dial and Weiss comes on the line. Breathless and gruff when he hears my voice. "Where the hell are you?"

Ignoring the question, I get right to the point. "You have to clear out of there. That guy you recruited...."

Eric interrupts, "How did you know about that?"

"Never mind!" I am practically shouting by now. "He's using you and they plan on cleaning house. Get out now."

I hear him cover the phone and yell something across the room. Good. He's taking me seriously. He comes back on the phone and says, "Michael, I don't know what you're up to...."

"I'm going after her. Derevko." The silence on the other end is palpable and I will him to say something.

"_Where_?" He's on the same page as me. Insubordination can wait.

"Route 1. Devil's Slide," I say, the phone practically slipping from my fingers as the Beamer picks up speed. "Look, there's more. Khasinau has a safe house....on Russian Hill..."

As I rattle off the address, I hear him chuckle at the irony of that location. "You've been busy."

"Just.....come soon."

"You bet." Weiss is already giving orders before he ends the call and I allow myself to smile. Competent to the core, Eric is one great agent and the closest thing I have to a real friend. And if anyone can pull this off, it's him.

******  


The 'Vette purrs under my fingers. A very sweet ride. Too bad I can't appreciate my stolen booty. If someone had told me that I'd lower myself to hot-wiring and stealing cars, I would have called them crazy. But that was then and this is now.

It's late in the day and the sun disappears behind a bank of clouds. The low mourning sound of a fog horn echoes in the distance and I am soon engulfed in a sea of fog. Obscuring everything but the hands in front of my face. Dampening the sounds around me....the faint ticking from my watch.....only my watch doesn't tick....and I know the car is rigged to blow. 

But I don't give a damn. I fly past the warning signs. Falling rocks. Fog. And a spy on the war path. Not caring if he lives or dies. I'm past the point where it matters anymore. And like those moments in the movies where it all flies apart, it all slows down. Like the rise and ebb of the tides.

I speed around a corner and one wheel slips off the pavement. Squealing as it tries to find purchase....my sigh of relief when it re-establishes contact. A break in the fog. The silvery lines of a tanker trunk on its side. Twisted and smoking. Blocking the road on both sides. 

A car-sized hole in the fence. Big enough for a black BMW. The sudden flash of movement....black and red....someone running at top speed....jumping in front of my car....arms waving....chocolate drop eyes pleading with me.

_Sydney._

Her voice in my head. Screaming. 

_Michael, get out of the car now!_

My foot hitting the brakes. The thud of my head on the steering wheel. Half-dazed as the door opens and a set of arms pulls me from the car. The scrape of my arms and legs on the pavement. Burning pain as I fall to the side of the road. Someone holding me close as the Corvette explodes into flames. Careening into the tanker. A huge fireball that lights the sky like a second sun. 

Sydney's hands in my hair. Fingers caressing my face. Her lips on my forehead. The warmth of her smile as she dissolves into the mist. The whisper of her words in my mind. The last thing she ever says to me.

_She is dead. You are safe. And I will always love you._

The moisture on my face that has nothing to do with the thickening fog. 

_She has saved me from myself._

I find myself walking along the fence line and I stop at the point where it all breaks apart. An open wound to the world. The chaotic scatter of my thoughts as I look down, still not believing it's over.

_Can't help myself. Have to see that it's really true. That it's finally done. That the bitch is gone. It's too easy…..how can I believe the words of a figment? The brush of her soul against mine…._

The rain seems to wash the fog away and I see a jagged pile of black metal melted into the mountains of rock at the base of the cliff. Flames dance along the frame of the car and I see a mass of blood and dark hair….more than I want to know….and then the car explodes….and I finally relent to the wall of grief I've held at bay for so long.

Torrents of rain pound at my back, competing with the tears that flow endlessly down my face. I look up at the embankment above me and see Weiss standing there with his hands extended. With a nod, I make my way up the hill, barely noticing his arm around my shoulders as he leads me away.

*****  
Two weeks later  


The doorbell rings and I wind myself around the cartons and boxes to get to the front door. I release the chain and push back the deadbolt and am met by the inquisitive eyes of my Aunt Trish. She smiles and pushes her hair back from her face. "Are you busy?" she asks mischievously, noting the disarray in my living room.

"Not at all. Want something to drink?" Not that I ever need an excuse, but lately, I seem to be hitting the bottle rather hard. 

"Of course. Just a few fingers." She sweeps by me and stops short at the sight of Eric wrapping my trophies in newspaper. "Oh, you have company."

"Hey," says Eric. "You must be Aunt Trish." He raises his eyes and I see him do a double take as he takes her in. Weiss looks over at me and whistles silently. 

"And you must be _the_ Eric Weiss," she replies, offering her hand. Weiss jumps to his feet and pumps her fingers with great enthusiasm. 

She's flattering him and I manage not to smile as he smoothes his hair back nervously. As I pass him, I mutter, "What about Paulie?"

He follows me to the kitchen. "It didn't work out....she likes one of the guys from Langley."

I shake my head in commiseration. "Sorry. Want some JD?"

"Sure. Why not?" He watches my aunt as she fingers the boxes and shakes his head. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Tell you what?" I pour out some JD and hand him the glass.

"About your aunt. She's smoking." 

"So she is." I point at her cigarette and smile as he shakes his head.

"That's not what I meant."

"I know." I swallow some JD and sigh as it rolls down my throat.

"You think she'd go for someone like me?" he asks nervously. Poor Weiss. Always on the losing end of relationships. And Trish? She's a man killer and would probably break his heart.

I shrug. "Maybe. But she's.....you know...._different_. And she's pushing 50."

"So?"

Guess I have to try harder. "And she lives in DC. Long distance relationships don't usually work out."

He smiles. "Actually, I meant to tell you. I've put for a transfer. To Langley."

That's news to me. "Really?" His entire family lives in LA and they're a tight knit clan if ever one existed.

"Yeah," he hangs his head slightly and looks away. "Umm, there's a promotion in it for me. For....you know."

"Congratulations." My smile is genuine and he seems relieved that I'm not reacting badly. What's the point? It's water under the bridge and it's not what Sydney would have wanted. The fact that I am speaking about her in the past tense.....that should bother me....but it feels strangely peaceful. Like I have finally let her go. 

"Thanks. So, you know, we might be neighbors," he jests and turns suddenly at the sight of Trish in the doorway. "You guys must need some time alone so I'll go back....and do what I was doing....."

He brushes by Trish and a huge smile breaks out on her face as he passes. "Your friend....he's very cute....and he likes me, yes?"

I hate being put in this position, but how can I stand between two people that might possibly belong together? Life is too damned short. I should know. Look what happened to me and Syd. The forces of life kept us apart until the very last second, and then it was too late. "Yeah. And he's moving to Washington soon."

She looks over her shoulder and that delectable smile breaks out again. Why the hell does it look so familiar? I shake my head and finally get around to the reason for her visit. "So why are you still here?"

"Unfinished business," she says mysteriously, propping herself against my stove. When she shifts her weight, I notice the parcel under her arm. 

"What's that?" I ask, pointing at her package.

"The reason I am here." She hands it to me and watches my face as I read the writing on the outside. _Her_ writing. How can it be?

"Is this some kind of joke?" I ask flatly, nearly dropping the package as I fall into a nearby chair.

"No joke, Michel. It arrived at my hotel on the day of your accident...and I've been trying to find a way to approach you. And now that you are moving...well, I knew it was time..."

I turn it around in my hands and feel its weight on my fingers. Another memory stirs...me holding my father's journal. Roughly the same size and weight as this package. When I look up at Trish, I see her dashing tears from her eyes. She gestures at me to open it and I unwrap it slowly. Black leather with gilt trimming. I am almost afraid to open it. "Did you know...?"

Trish nods quickly and moves to the window. Giving me some measure of privacy as I crack open the cover. Freshly inked with the scrawl of Syd's writing.

_Diaries are not just for girls._

The slow drip of my tears as I turn the page and see more writing on the first page.

_The first day of the rest of your life. Use it well._

Her words strengthen me and fill me with a few rays of hope. That maybe it will get better. That maybe I can get past the gloom and doom. That I can leave her behind and move forward. One step at a time.

The End

***********  



End file.
